Dust

Cue the night:

I’m buried in seaside dust, raw from overreaction;

Building futile ashen castles,

Ironically unwashed by vaguely dreamt metaphors?

{And I should know} If I opened my mouth, I’d only sneeze in more than would be wise;

Those strange laws of expulsion-impulsion.

So I will stay, holding my breath though I never reached the sea,

Contemplating lasciviousness in bewildered detachment;

Like a cow in a charnel shed, face shoved in dead could-have-beens.

Tourist guide:

Not quite sure why I was there. Just let the dust be dust again.

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