There are many of us, like the many leafs on the tree
They could see the outside, and the sky
The birds that fly free.
We are simply dust swirling around in circles
trap in a glass, unable to break free.
We could see the outside, people living life, so wonderfully happy
we got knocked around a lot, and sometimes dropped, and we rolled into an old creek
Nobody sees us, as we got abandoned, because we were simply dust.
What would I give, if I could live outside of this bottle.
Even for just a moment, before we cease to exist.
Can we ever break free, or will we live on with this precarious belief.
Dust are not precious. How silly can you be.
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