To Dust 

I don't know what to say,
my words form
like plumes of disturbed dust,
briefly formed,
then scattered flecks—
once more.
I have wandered 
under this hushed blanket
for so long;
all I can seem to do is
sit and watch
and be.
I don't know how to leave this place,
or maybe, I don't want to?
The inert surroundings
almost bolster me,
making few demands,
only asking to idle here
a little more.
So here I shall stay,
embedded under the—
no.
They are gone again.


By Laura Benn