Dust.

 Dust.

In our beds,

on our tables,

on the floor,

in the walls,

in our shoes,

on our faces,

in our mouths,

Dust.

It takes our crops,

it kills our cattle,

it tears at our legs,

and whips our faces,

it takes our money,

our safety,

our hope,

our children.

The Dust.

The topsoil we so praised in years before,

then overworked and whipped into submission-

has come back to bite us.

As Dust.

The wheat we grew in plenty, 

when none were there to buy,

is given back to us, 

lest by starving we die.

From Dust.

The house that we built,

is buried o'er with sand

the dirt that we plowed,

is no longer on our land.

It's Dust.

Our very breath is taken from us,

we're choking in the dust,

we're blinded by it's blackness,

we're broken and we're lost.

In Dust.

On The Dust Bowl, 

Original Work,

Copyright 2020