Dust to Dust

The first fancied himself
a patient white knight.
The enlightened boy
rode straight into a battle
that was already ending —
victory had gone.

The second was a businessman
who traveled, traveled, traveled,
always looking but never finding
what had been in front of him
for the last time already.

The third was a ghost, or a dream,
or maybe a fantasy.
He was always fading at the edges,
always one step behind the present,
stuck firmly in the mud of the past.

They say death comes in threes.

“What good is a leap of faith,” she told me,
“if you have a safety net?”

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