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The Realm of Dust
by Linda FullerThis sliding precipice on which I stand,
bewildered by my bloodstream’s frantic flow,
erodes beneath my feet. I hadn’t planned
this treadmill catch-up race to end, although
the time spent thrilling to life’s fire has waned,
and dead flies decorate my windowsill
in tantalizing runes my eyes have strained
to understand as portents of goodwill.
Benevolence, however’s, not the face
that manifests in each reflecting blot
of surface: mirrors, eyes; the stern embrace
of entropy insensate to my lot.
I raise my fist, a futile, final thrust
against death’s sovereignty, the realm of dust.
06/06/2010 Posted on 06/06/2010
Copyright © 2024 Linda Fuller
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 06/07/10 at 05:21 AM You had me going all over the place catching meanings with this creative piece. Then I read the author's note and it thrust me into a place I I thought I recognized. The end of the day seems like dust as I settle into the precipice of sleep... hoping to lose myself there. Thanks for the thought provoking poem. |
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