Dust to dust

I am already close to dust,

the fire having consumed three-quarters of me.

My edges are all dark and crumbling,

hitting the ground in a sort of wispy fatigue.

Remember, 

you are dust.

But, I think, dust at least has substance.

Some days, I feel as though I do not exist.

Dust can stick to you,

color boots and knees,

get washed down the drain.

I am almost transparent.

There is a sort of dignity,

then,

in being dust.

One I will grasp for, 

over the next 40 days.