Turn to Dust

I met a thought that, on first assumption,
lay at night with brittle hair
and skin as raw as the universe itself.
Yet, as light dawned I knew there were no truths
in the whispers that drift along the cliffs edge.
Reawakening the subtle ties that bind the soul of man
to grounded calling. You called.
You called
and I thought maybe there was something hidden.
Something that was worth the price of crude discovery.
But the nights grow cold and
I am nothing more than tissue paper in the rain.
The single droplet
tears the skin and I, blasphemous in retreat,
only saw the shadow of your hints.
Nothing lasts forever,
and I am less than forever now.
Plunging into waters of ice,
as you never watch for me to rise again.
“A joke”, the joker cried in pitiful merriment,
“was all you were to me!”
And I defend into the recoils of infinity,
marked only as cosmic smut.

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.

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