by Padma Devkota

I am the dust raised by the rolling wheels of sun and stars
as they cruise across the not-too-empty interstellar space.
They beam me bright and cool me down to just the point
where comfort feels like life and desires rise apace.
Barely visible, I rise and fall and float around the emptiness
of purpose and intent, meeting the requirements of life
which keeps the race-spirit aflame merging with the cloud
which is greater than the dust that falls without a strife.
But there is something that merges with the dust to fill
bubbles and worlds of feelings that gather and grow
to extreme size of worth and strength and power so that I,
the finest dust, believe that I can suns and stars mow
down to the nothingness of the most fancied delusion
that sits like a glory-halo of self-created illusion.

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