The Psalms of Dust: 1

Are you running away, my friend?

She looks hurt — aghast almost —

evident in the moisture of her

hazel, haloed eyes as she peers

through the fading blanket of dusk,

talking to it as if to a friend.

Fall upon me and shroud me,

in the velvety depths of your

eternal twilight suspended;

swaddle me in your comforting canopy,

that we might linger a little while

in the moments before full dawn.

She seems weary as dawn’s rays

begin to burn away yesterday’s

low-hanging, cloud-fogged haze.

We are not even certain how we

came to bear witness between

prophet and proudly perishing pre-dawn.

“Dust?” we venture — recognition dawning.

Her short silver hair waves to the rhythm

of an unseen wind as it weaves and whispers

something to the witness. She turns,

her eyes intense, piercing —

then softening, with crinkles of recognition.

“Ah, good, you’ve come,” relief evident,

her ageless visage frozen at forty-five, smiling.

“We did… though where here is—”

we motion helplessly with raised hands.

She chuckles softly. “A dream? A vision?

Who can say for certain?”

Perplexed, we lower our arms. “Why?”

A single eyebrow rises, curious.

“Yes — let’s discuss that,” she nods solemnly.

“I’m here to tell you, the time has grown

very short indeed, my friends. It nears

with a dizzying pace — faster, more terrifying.”

“The time and date — the day even — do not matter.

Preparedness in daily living with readiness:

these are what are necessary for times

such as these tired monuments to vainglory.”

She waves a hand, dismissing a stray thought,

her eyes fixed, orbiting Him — abiding.

As her words begin to vanish upon the fading,

sleepily sloughing wave of slumber drawing

nearer the surface where memory is misted,

we meet and shake hands in fond farewell —

the dream a fog burned off by Day’s heat

under newer, older skies, until we rise.