handful of dust

There hasn't been any word of the ones who went away,
Letters didnt arrive like had been expected.
Whispers on the wind. Echoes bound off a vast mountain,
Who's roots hadnt really so much to explore -
Yet deepened, and fastened, holding on.
Old wives tales; from marauding tiger to kingdom come
We haven't heard enough to understand what we say.
Ideas hadn't had time to become realised,
Shadows in the cave. Fading world is a crumbled dream,
Who's images werent captured in any sense of the word -
But remembered, unforgotten, reassured.

There's one of the ones who's been fooled -
Fooled into thinking it's easy to unexist.
Reasoned to a wish that all turns to dust -
And blows away. To immateriality...
Now, in dream's essence the spirit has always been,
Since blown into the mould and held in esteem,
And holding to account it's own peurile promise -
A Just action. Your own doings are wrong.
And forgotten naivetes emerge and solidify.
A script already written - pages acted but unread.

A hand deftly, and timidly lifts a curtain,
While the observers turn away, wings covering teary eyes.
Dark timelessness beyond, an unavoidable inevitibility -
Not dead you are, and not living.
Peerless possibility. Fallen to your knees.

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