by Morgan Carlson

Created on: February 18, 2009

Spattering of dirt caught in the air,

The minuscule bits and pieces of hair,

Flakes of skin cells cast to the side,

Upon non-disturbed spaces is where they reside.

This amalgam mixture goes where it goes,

More often than not winds up in a nose,

The act incites a sneeze and ejection once more,

Before the dust once again settles to the floor.

And then the dust will once again find flurry,

When disturbed from an object again in a hurry,

A cycle it will find it is sure to repeat,

The return to the air, a gift from ones' feet.

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