If Everything Turns To Dust Poem by Praise Akanni

If everything turns to dust,
Then we must be like the metamorphosed dead.
If all becomes water,
Then like the poles we become.
If all becomes air,
We will be like the passing wind.
Because the one minute never clocks
But at thirty or fourty-five stops,
Or better still almost one.
And the weary legs make haste to sit.
To sit that it might talk.
It might talk all the talks.
All the talks which one a long way off is not concerned,
And forgot about at the corridors of memories.