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FROM THE DUST
My pony had a hissy fit;
I never saw it coming.
He reared and bucked, and that was it.
Then he was off and running.
Mid-show, I rose and coughed up dust;
Thank God, I was unhurt.
I knew, to mount again I must,
Not wallow in the dirt.
I held my breath and climbed aboard
My impudent blood-bay.
We cleared the hurdles, soared and scored,
The champions of the day.
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Dust on the floor.
Etched with care.
By neglect and
total despair.
Asleep for ten decades.
Maybe more.
Greyish-brown
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
by Jon Coe
Dead skin, remnants of time, gone by
questions unanswered, still asking why
Grandpa lives, over there by his chair
parts of
CHORES
Do you see, up there, by the light,
it's dust and cobwebs from last summer!
What could be under my bed
where my lover
by Adam Smith
Dust
Build from dust
We are made and back to dust
We shall remain.
Our bodies will wither and die
No words can bring us back
No
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