“Pulvis et umbra sumus. (We are but dust and shadow.)” ~ Horace, The Odes of Horace
dust winding between toes with each delicate footfall. She knows this place, every crevice, and nook in this abandoned chamber. Her shadow dances with the dust motes of long forgotten words, as she makes her way to the windowsill and gently parts the inter weavings of a spider’s repast. Gossamer strands wind about her fingers and wrist as if to hold her prisoner until she finds what she’s searching for. She lets out a guilt ridden sigh and places a five fingered pale handprint into the grime of a windowpane. This is her doing, these corridors of desolate bleak forgetfulness.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sunlight slanted through a dusty handprint, watching the air dance with movement. Triturated webbing and motes coat every pore of my exposed skin like a fine mist of nourishment. Kansas Dust In the Wind serenades the lost memory of hearing, stretching the silence into refrain.
I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment's gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes with curiosity
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
I am the woman lost in the dusty corners of her mind. Pulsing veins rising like tattoos through the epidermis, cutaneous markings with a message for me and me alone. I breathe deep, choking on particles of paragraphic nuances I’d long packed into hidden trunks of my subconscious.
Picture From Here