The Dustman
Bred of decay, Born of wind.
Gathered from ash,
My tracks have long since thinned.
I am a man,
Yet not of men.
I am in time,
Yet not of when.
I am in every corner,
Weather seen or not,
I am of all things, the pristine beauty,
The bellows of stench and rot.
Window of day, Window of night.
Guide me by sun's wake or painted moonlight.
Take hold of these worn feet,
For they have held me long,
Yet they hunger for retreat.
Retreat from an endless pace,
Led me through the eons,
Wandering the earth's face.
Where a beginning once was,
Where and end lies in wait,
My eyes have not forgotten,
The ever changing landscape.
I have seen vistas un-ravaged by man,
My eyes strip its innocence.
And such sights I have held,
Seem sculpted by Gods own hand.
Tread upon stones sculpted by the sea,
Kissed the lips of the purest water,
Caressed every being,
Held every tree.
I have witnessed the birth of ages,
Traced the edges of ancient glyphs,
Read from mans first written pages,
Heard waves thunder upon unknown cliffs.
I have held the hand of pharaohs,
Bathed in tides lost from memory,
Watched great temples etched,
From the deepest granite quarry.
I have felt continents shift,
Heard mountains breach earth's crust,
I have watched atoms collide,
And rivers bleed rust.
I have held witness to a grand design,
Taken shape upon a changing land,
I am the first born son of earth,
I am the Dustman.

The Dustman

Have you ever thought about the dust on your shelves? Where does it come from, where has it been?