Once regal.
Once opulent.
Dancing in the moonlight.
Beneath crystal chandeliers.
Now crumbling.
Soon to be dust.
Moments lost in time.
Never heard from again.
A place of desolation.
Stairs leading to nowhere.
For no one.
The house sits empty.
Deserted for years.
Dust its sole visitor.
The piano waits for a voice.
Someone to play its keys.
One last song before it’s too late.
Before its beauty is lost.
Before it joins the dust.
Play me.
Sunset in Everglades National Park, Florida
THE TEST OF TIME
We all succumb to it.
It takes its victims.
No one is safe.
We wither.
Dry up.
Turn to dust.
Life goes on.
Until the next victim.
Bites the dust.
And so it goes.
On and on.
It continues.
In waves.
In cycles.
In perpetuity.
No reason to fight it.
Only to accept it.
whitesoulblackheart:
Asectic by Pierre Alain D. ©
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We tend to forget
we’ve sprung from the soil.
When our time is up,
we’ll return to it.
We must keep our humility.
Our humanity intact.
The earth can still reject us,
eject us from its sphere.
Don’t tempt it.
As I fade away,
I think of days gone by.
As I crumble to sand,
I remember the past.
As I shrivel to nothing,
I regret what I’ve done.
But most of all,
I regret what I haven’t.
The house sits empty.
Deserted for years.
Dust its sole visitor.
The grand piano waits for a voice.
Someone to play its keys.
One last song.
Before it’s too late.
Before its beauty is lost.
Before it joins the dust.
Play me.
Richard Misrach, ‘Clearing Storm Near Kingman,’ 1985, Robert Mann Gallery
Emptiness.
A vast open space.
Open to the sky.
Coated in dust and mud.
Rearranged by sand storms.
Washed by the rain.
We wait for help.
For the weather.
For settlers.
For investors.
We wait.
