DUST

if a reverent man
sits in a graveyard
in the darkest hour
only to
test his faith
or to put it on a parade

what then
is this kind of faith
that is dependent
on proof
of existence

what then
is this kind of faith
that has a weakness
for acclaim

I have seen
more faith
in the eyes
of a dying mongrel

a faith rooted
in knowledge
that one day
we all come back home

a faith in knowing
that finality
bows down
to eternity

i need something more than words.
give me more than just words.

give me words you really mean.
when you say them.

and when you don't say them.

dispensable

Kohinoor

I once saw a pebble
I had assumed
It was insensate

That was then
And this is now

The pebble
Today
Lives polished

I live, nowadays
Scuffed on the inside
And around the edges

This is how it all began
The story of a roadside pebble
And a palatial man

It was a pebble
On the side
Of a road

Frigid at night
And blistering
When it was a day of the sun

I felt sorry for it

It gathered moss
And got dressed up
By the traveling dust

Lying there
In eternal wait
Trampled upon by stubborn feet

I was sure
If it had life
I would hear it sigh

Pleading for rains
And when it did
I would see it weep

I felt sorry for it

And then one day
The last shiny bit of it
Caught her eye

It got picked
By a lady
With velvety hands

She saw beauty in it
Made love to it
With her satin kerchief

It transformed as she grew obsessed
She made it the central piece
In her royal crest

I hear, these days
It goes around
Telling stories

About it, a jewel in Her Majesty's throne
And a roadside pauper
Someone it had once known

And it adds
With worried brows together knit
And an elaborate gesture of the hands

I feel sorry for it