Magic

Inside the dust

hanging from the ceiling fan

lives the magic.

Over time the dust

comes out to play.

The dust despises summer.

The dust gets sick

projecting little tiny particles

in a spiral fashion.

The dust wishes

to be a window.

Wishing to see

anything but the blade.

The blade.

Don’t talk about the blade.

The dust multiplies

in fear of the blade.

Spreading far and wide

the dust never realized

the shape of the moon.

If only the dust

hung from the moon.

If only the moon

had the magic of the dust.

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