A poem...If everything...

If everything returns to dust,

Why do we live as though mountains will last forever?

We seem to believe that the juice box is always full

Only to find air squirting into our dry mouths.

Vanity of vanities!

If everything returns to dust why don’t we live

As if life were a graveyard and not a parade?

Pointing out the tombstones

Instead of the clowns of our day.

If Youtube was the place where dust

Simply passed before our face, would

Million hit videos even exist?

Vanity! If it were a fair should we even go?

And if we did should we eat the popcorn

If it’s only dust packaged as an illusion

To corrupt our minds?

Dust storms are suddenly, extremely terrifying.

If everything returns to dust,

And education is just striving after the wind…

Why am I sitting in class gaining knowledge

That’s guaranteed not to last? Vain vanities.

Wind catching up to my frantic pace,

My lungs can’t catch breath and my abdominal

Cavity is in open rebellion as though it were

Splitting into a million particles. Dust. That’s me.

I’m beginning to see space mirroring my face.

Asteroids and meteorites coursing through…nothingness.

Since I’ve seen this reflection I’m wondering…

Are we The Walking Dead or is that a TV show?

I asked these question to my constant companion Sierre,

Only to find I’d left her back two hundred yards and she was gone.

Vanities! If everything returns to dust?

 It’s a great question but it isn’t true.

For I have found one thing and it only

Demanded a  molecular composition that defied

The laws of depravity. It was not nor would have been

Fine with becoming ash, dust or silt.

 To the point it chose a life

Well lived for a act so great.

He said, “ I will take dust and reconcile it with glory.”

I will redeem it from the ash it call it “Beautiful”

God said, “ I am glory.” He looked at the world

And saw my reflection, distorting that

which had been designed for perfection.

   So He sent Beauty itself to the ashes.

   He’d watched dust strive after wind long enough.

   Beauty hung Himself on a cross and as God turned His back;

   His heart began to pump filth into His very self.

Then it stopped. Beating ceased.

And the particles he had created,

Shook and revolted against this thing. It could not be.

Beauty was gone. Or so it seemed.

But three days in the grave left a gift that dust could

Never fully comprehend.

He rose so we might be made like Him.

 We’re remaining dust for a vapor,

But promised glory forever.

If Jesus had returned to dust,

Where would we be?

I can promise you

We wouldn’t be traveling on a road to Beauty.