without spirit we are dust

A desert of sands stands before me.
A difficult journey, a dryness, and an essence of decay.
Almost liquid, unpredictable, settling, seeming stable.
Fine particles that define a shape but defy a structure.

Like the sand our bodies find limits.
No matter the fitness we are destined to decay in form.
Changes of shape on behalf of forces,
the gravity keeps our legs from atrophy.
The sand’s decay, however, is only scatter.

Like the sand of the hour glass,
it’s only a matter of time.
Before we are one with dirt.
As without spirit we are dust.


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