I sprinkle dust of my soul
on the places I travel
and the people I meet
so that these little peices crave to dissolve again,
so that I get to live those moments again,
If you ever wished to kill me,
you will have to burn all that dust,
but you see, I won't end there,
for I have paid an endearing toll,
I have often sanded my soul.
and when it all dissolve back
I become a storyteller,
with a few more white threads in my beard,
with a few more wrinkles on the back of my palm
and a soul that heals,
so that it can travel far,
so that it could dust a scar,
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