I'd rather be the dust left from
leaping flames
Than endure such a brief existence,
To burn so very true, and only leave a
brightness
To linger behind the eyes.
Dust does not burn, it does not leap,
And yet it stays, reduced to essence,
Spread thin and bitter in the space
left by greater things.
I'd rather be the dust, the ashes of a
passion,
And be blown afar by a stronger wind--
For though ash has no beauty and no
heat,
It has the memory still, of something
that was.
3-9-12
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