Nothing but dreams and dust.

How is it all those memories

are made of solid block, the type

I bloody my knuckles on?

The type where I'm breaking hearts

and my own will, then foraging the pieces

like truffles deep in the wood? Everything

is dank and soiled and smells like my heart

set to rotting, but none of it is real, merely made

of salt like Lot's wife–loose resolve and a bad sense

of direction, and yet here I am–Your masterpiece–

solid and forward facing, ignoring the fact that I am

nothing but dreams and dust.