I'm just the dust on the clock
rarely shined, left so grey,
just a sign of my past;
my dim yesterday...
I feel the golden spike tick,
another moment that's passed
another moment unnoticed
that aligns with the last.
Yet, I'm here on the wall,
a perspective to see
...unable to move,
unable to breathe...
I'm just static and dry,
no purpose to claim.
I cling to my presence:
insignificance and name.
DUST; a product of waste
and a burden to share.
No one realizes, knows...
no one cares that it's there...
