Why Dirt Matters

Dust.

The floating particles of annoyance that keep you cleaning a shelf of things you never use. Like picture frames and books all used to consume, memories and lies about when you will start reading it. It’s covered again I must get to cleaning it.

Dirt.

The ground that we walk on the place from which grass grows the place where we are buried, the molten rock from which we are formed. The last solidarity tree sitting silently surrounded by concrete crying for anyone to water it. But instead it sucks sewage from a runoff.

Rocks.

The pond skippers skipping utensil of choice. The Hong they used to build buildings tall by choice. Waiting to be crumbled into the dirt beneath our feet. They are just the hardened uncles of friend dirts monogamous choice.

You see this is Piece I impart to all of you, that the entropy of our life wears on us through time, and if it doesn’t take our mind, our body will fall apart in time. But this is. It such a bad thing, as it is meant to be. First our body is lowered in casket so expensive we could of never afforded it on our below minimum wage job. Then we are pack tightly with our brother dirt. Lying helpless unable to pay rent. So our tomb degraded as payment for rent long overdue. And the decomposition makes us unrecognizable to people that knew you. Then the worms take us apart bit by bit. Decomposition is ghastly I have heard that shit. But this becomes a nutrient rich soil. That goes through many phases, for some it’s oil. Then the planet explodes and the particles scattered. Where they go is not what matters. Because everyone of us is star dust you see and at one point we were dirt and worked cooperatively. Then we where thick’s as thieves, closer than closer, brother of brother as rocks.

And that’s the lesson here. Don’t look at anyone like a stranger, don’t put anyone in danger, because we are cut from the same cloth, even that cray uncle on the hilltop.

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