All we do is dust.

A short poem on the ephemerous nature of everything.

From my second self-published poetry book—Anarcholeptic; a collection of works about protest and change. “To those whose battles shape our world; to those who might still join.”

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Poem text.

It’s all becoming dust,
the legacy you stuffed
your ego with, the just 
result of having snuffed
your life away for lust
and glory—hoarding much,
enjoying nothing. Dust,
of all you made for such
a fickle life to trust.
You’re only one of us,
another corpse to thrust
to Hell and not discuss
at all again. The dust
of someone even lost
in greatness, one who must
accept the fact and cost
that all we do is dust.

The Funeral of Shelley, by Louis Edouard Fournier, via Wikimedia Commons.