Tell, where do I go
when all that is precious
dissolves into dust
when I grasp for it.

Where do I start
when life evades my reach,
denies me the dance,
rejects my voice.

What am I, when not in a
holy bond with life?
Do I cease to exist?

And yet, I breathe.
Holy, moldy, wet, autumn air.
Dare me, life
go down like this.