I am not the same person I was
When assigned to this world as dust
A thin particulate layer like the surface of the moon
Imprinted by what last landed there. Soon
I will blow somewhere in an assignation.
I’ll drift onto your tongue as an affirmation.
A second later you’ll swear I never happened.
This is half-true. I never penned
The answers to the query my life asked.
I never organized. I rarely mutli-tasked.
Yet there was something the dust says.
Never invited but with all the s’il-vous-plaits.
What is the meaning of all the flattened softness?
What if I’m adrift, unsung, unsought, no Loch Ness?
Meaning is a construct. Dust: eternal layer.
Biome is speculative. Planet steals from air.
Our species creates its own betrayed collective.
It dies into the dust. It rises again to let live.