The Weight of Dust
The weight of dust is heavier than you think.
It breathes through rooms like a silent ghost.
It congregates on objects, like families settling on new land.
It spontaneously causes coughing and sneezing fits and doesn’t apologise.
This dim grey blanket waits and waits to be removed, growing, spreading.
How many days?
How many weeks?
I can blow on it to create a tiny hurricane, but my arms are two week to lift it.
It is resisting me, so I sit down to rest.
Looking around I try to remember how this place was before.
Was it always this grey and dark?
Where the curtains open so the sun could beam in,
worming my face and soul?
Could I walk here and there without having to create a safe path first?
Was I always this weary?
I must try again.
Tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll be stronger tomorrow.
Maybe I won’t.
But the dust, it is just too heavy.
