Dust

Sometimes,

I feel strangely oppressed

by the dust

sitting comfortably on

all things in my room

covering them in a hazy layer. 

Dust,

that insignificant, harmless looking

residual,

left behind by the speeding time,

reminds me of my own laziness. 

As I try to routinely dust it off,

it flies up – tiny particles

filling the nostrils, choking,

eyes going red, smarting and teary.

Thankfully, for a moment,

it seems to obey,

only to come back, stealthily,

later sometime. 

What if I don’t frequently displace it,

allowing it the freedom

to settle on its own, anywhere, everywhere?

It has, I’m afraid, vast potential

to engulf,

bury all it lays its dusty hands upon,

even civilizations.

Harappa and Mohenjodaro bear

the testimony.

 

************

 

Ashok Misra