The Chronicle of Dust

The dust descends, not a mournful veil,
but a light dance of invisible spheres,
depositing its slow layer
upon what was, upon what lies here.
It is an archive without hands or mind,
a breath suspended in eternal air.

It captures the ephemeral: a ray now faded,
an ancient breath that vibrated in glass,
time’s trail from every point,
the mute rustle of a step already past.
Every grain, fragment of the universe,
in time’s great scattered silence.

The dust knows all within its vast wisdom,
judging no angles, nor tired forms.
It continues to descend, it continues to weave
the subtle pattern on every surface.
Discreet keeper of what was life,
a mute memory, never ending.