Dust And Ashes
It takes oil paint one hundred years
to dry, not quite as long as tears,
but Man, whom God made from wet soil,
dried up more speedily than oil.
The angels thought he was absurd,
believing God had greatly erred
in making what could be a rival
to Him, a veritable devil.
They were the whistleblowers who
prevailed on the Almighty to
test Eve and Adam with a snake
to prove they were one great mistake.
Though both were wet when first God formed them,
they dried as soon as he informed them
they’d have to leave the paradise
where life’s a peach and no one dies.
When they both ate that apple fresh,
they learned one can’t rely on flesh;
on spirit we are all dependent,
all sinners fallen Man’s descendant.
God didn’t given him forty lashes,
but turned his flesh to dust and ashes,
as ours, too, will be in good time,
forgotten like this foolish rhyme:
we’ll dry like oil paint, not endure
when crumbling beyond craquelure.