Not The Answers, Dust The Questions Poem by C Richard Miles

What part of the plan, in the great scheme of things, was made
For dust?
When God made the world, didn’t he just guess he’d made
Raw dust?
Would the dandruff that fell, when he scratched his head, have made
Pure dust?
And why did there all run, like floods from a dam, on parquetted
Floor, dust?
So why didn’t I think that the chair, which the sale displayed,
Bore dust?
And how was I to notice that its plush, golden brocade
Wore dust?
And how did it make, when the cat scratched with sharp, splayed
Paw, dust?
And why forget God chose that a woodworm should, un-allayed,
Gnaw dust?
How fierce were its teeth, to mince in that sharp, razor-blade
Jaw, dust?
And how was it the chair was composed, in its now-frayed
Core, dust
And why did I forget and knocked it on the sides, so they’d
Pour dust?
How big could it get, that mountain that grew from decayed
Saw dust?
And why am I so scared to do that household, unpaid
Chore: dust?
Why don’t I ever succeed when I try, gently, to dissuade
More dust?
Is the thing they must ban is, in some future, yet-unmade
Law, Dust?
Will scientists make something that will (or is it still delayed)
Cure, dust?
Or will it have to be swept, until they tell me, “I’m afraid
You’re dust? ”
Is what will be, the thing that’s, for me, the last, down-laid
Straw, dust?
Do you know what will haunt me, when in the coffin I’m laid?
Sure, dust!