it is not dust
we must mistrust
but rust
the slow painful decay of years
Shakespeare complained that
virtue retained will
someday b
e the purview of worms
and yet we dare not abandon ourselves
and our wonton
desires
that we let fall to rust
when we must trust what is in us
this need to feed
this polish of meddle we get
from the rub of heavenly bodies
the sweat of it keeping us trim
it is not dust I
mistrust
but the rust of ill use
the need to press on
in, out, and beyond
to keep intact that
piece
we need most in our lives
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