The Dust

I have seen in magazines

The moon under a microscope,

Small pitted

by the impacts of dust,

Like tiny waves on an ancient beach,

Across a distant sea,

This pummeling

And erosion,

A lunar island in a major ocean.

Sometimes my spirit yearns to fly,

Sometimes I see the angels

die

And the high bring down the low.

Then what is the real impact of dust,

So very numerous?

And what value may we find

In abundant obsolescence?

I see the open road

and become it,

Shaking the dust up as I go.

And the dusty breeze

that sweeps along

Is what I ride

without direction.

Just let it go,

And go as the wind goes,

Without a limit

And all unending.