DUST

DUST The life one has lived may be dust Blown away in the morning breeze Some contributions appear as rust As scarred iron in a world of ease Treasured memories may be skewed To fit, like a swollen foot into a shoe But with a form of fantasy is imbued As what others remember is not true Were all those years ever for naught Growing up, working, taking a wife As all relationships are now fraught And are not much value to any life Writings that others will never read A modest sum to leave in one’s will Sitting alone with none taking heed Few even recognised that I was ill The seeds I planted, now have grown Photos packed away in that dusty box Others live lives that are all their own But I am kept safe with window locks