Poisoned Rationality

Dusty, in the heat,
There’s dust in my face,
Dust in my gullet,
And dust in my clothes.

There’s dust around me,
Rising like a whirling cloud,
Ready to engulf me,
In its dusty clout.

And my legs weary,
Trudge through the dust,
Every step resolute,
In their ever moving thrust.

There’s dust in my shoe,
Dust in my pane,
Dust in my self,
To the very vein.

And then there’s the sound of the cloud,
That seems to rear like a horse,
And bring with it rain,
That washes my very soul.

The rain washes my eyes,
It washes my face,
It washes my lips,
It washes the pain.

But o dear rain,
You halt my steps,
You make it all the more difficult,
To walk the bit I’ve left.

Your force so strong,
And tender to boot,
It washes my fears,
But cripples me soon.

For the rain once gone,
Would leave me wet,
And the cunning dust
Would stick to me instead.