Sparkling in sunlight’s faded haze.
Dust rises from empty bookshelves and covered up furniture.
It covers the pictures and becomes their frames, coating the china,
Turning porcelain to gray.
It rests upon the jewelry box, in its etched design
And rests inside where gold decays, stones turn to dust, and chains of silver rust.
Dust is what she left behind, dust is what she became.
What I hold in this urn, her, a fistful of ashes, a pile of soot.
Now I see the side effects of living, they become clearer once you’re dead.
Stacked boxes of things she couldn’t take with, packed to the brim.
The sun casts its last glow over this scene
Of empty space, empty bookshelves, and fading picture frames,
And dust descending from the now empty place.