Dust

Dust has settled for awhile now
The stale inhales become cleaner
The hands have forced loose thoughts until taut
Blued hues, matching heart tones, brighten
The top of the hill is only a couple more feet

Backwards hands would have laid limp
Defending nothing
Lungs full of metaphoric pathogens
Stretched hopes blurred what was underlying.

Words and hurt gripped like a vice
Questioned questions and force-fed the dust
Rust was for dinner
Beginning to weather a faltering esteem

A couple more feet.