the birds

by ea

the slippage
of memory is a curious thing,
like a river of birds
in the sand.

they flock
with their wings
beating rings into shores
into dust, as they dance
out of hand.

the fog of the feral,
the dust of the pharoah
traverses to faraway

then back
through the border
of conscient subconscious
relaying the medleys
of kant.

the birds are an ocean...

upon its return
to the birds and the rocks,
weathered dust is a seed
and a friend.

pervasive in air,
and persuasive in flair,
its brings men
to their knees
and their end.

some call it a scent
and some feel it a touch,
others still try to grasp,
but their hands

are dust,
which composes the dust,
decomposing to dust
as the birds dance again.