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242 Novels

The Play

It's a Mystery

When There is Only Dust in the End

My eyes are filled with salt
They are a dead sea
The notion of tears is a feeling that floats up over
My left shoulder
Retreating every time my head turns to see it
So much so that I begin to wonder if it’s even there
For if it is not, what is left of me is the shell
Not even a shadow
Just the black stain behind me with
The notion of the man no longer there
Only the shell shall live
No thought, no hope, no feeling
Till my days are done
The dust that I am
Will be as the dust that I tread on.