Poetry Talk

New post from Comfort

The theology of dust

I watch the sun spill itself thin through a cracked celling,

Dust… a cathedral of forgotten memories

dances with the desperate reminder

that even ruins remember light.

The air hums with small eternities,

each particle rehearsing how to glow.

I reach my hand into the beam,

and it fits,perfectly,like time forgave me.

Funny how the light never asks who built the cracks,

it just arrives, certain it belongs.

I wonder if God ever sneezed when He made us.

If the first man was an accident of breath,

a handful of earth flung too hard toward eternity.

Every temple is dust pretending to be order.

The air is a slow confession of beginnings,

each mote a sermon on impermanence.

Even silence sheds,

every stillness has a shimmer if you look long enough.

And yet, nothing keeps.

Even light forgets the faces it touches.

Dust gathers where faith once stood,

patient, unashamed, unending.

Perhaps holiness is just what lingers

after everything else

stops trying to be seen.