Dust’s ode

From where we stay, there is a long view,

Out through the long corridor, darkened

At the very end, there is light, streaming

Through a million of our brethren, dancing


The lonely man walks in and out,

Mutters a word to himself, in agony,

He stops at the corridor, taking in silence,

Turns to look at us, a fine battalion


We give him attention, day and night,

We have stayed through thick and thin,

As if in gratitude, he doesn’t wipe us off

But only stares at us as we build more muscle


We have stayed long enough to understand,

The workings of his solitary mind,

His brush strokes that evoke emotions,

His genius; but stacks of framed pictures


Once in a while, he walks in a melancholic trance

Sheds a tear or two as he peers at his creations,

One by one, through our empathetic selves

But never did he mop us away, never


Gathering dust is what they call it,

The dying of a connoisseur unknown,

The losing of a life unfulfilled,

But only if dust they knew had life