sometimes i lock myself in to watch the dust gather,

each particle, its own mess of infinite.

settling in along the shelf, amidst the bindings of books.

as i sit, the world spins.

and life

outside this room

unravels.

i am reminded of the insignificance of my personhood,

when i remain

static, frozen, still,

in the wake of existence.

moments pass way like petals of a dying flower,

slipping from life with ease, and yet

with permanence.

there is truth in the roses,

who find their final resting place as the dust that gathers,

on shelves, particles of existential mercy, lie still

at ease.

outside

the world unravels

with permanence,

that not even the eye can see.