Poem 362 – The Dust City

This city is nothing,
Just dust,
Some on top of other dust,
Some pressed with other stuff
To make this place which
Though sometimes shining,
Is dull to me,
No vital spark,
Despite the mobile rats
Which squark and prattle and squeak
Since they are dead, or nearly so,
And lack the power to excite me.
Billions of beating hearts
Are trillions of tons
Of lifeless dust,
As grey and anonymous
As the void of space,
Without colour or noise to praise.
They make noise and call it music,
Smear dust and call it art,
And still I cannot care for such trivial things
For I sense,
far away,
The only worthwhile place,
That place I may not go,
That grants this dustness meaning.