February 18

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Dust Dancing

There is a freedom in being
dust, mortal, finite.
It is not my shoulders,
on which the world rolls
ever onward towards
destiny, or supernovae,
or the quiet dark of
a fading sun. My light
began to fade even
as it was becoming
I, dust creature, light
as ash. Smudged with
me-ness, marked by death
we go laughing, lightened
of relieved worlds,
lifted free.


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