From dust we came not that kind upon the shelve
But a dust so creative it made life itself.
Time to time we need a sprinkle
A pinch to make our eyes twinkle.
When all seem lost and in despair
A little angel dust is blown there.
Creative thoughts and musical joy,
They dance and make our dreams come true.
When we think that we are all alone,
The dust is falling upon us in crimson and blue.
Then as we grow weary and old,
We return to dust and streets of gold.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Creative Dust by Saint Eule )
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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