Dust comes. Dirt comes.
It invents itself.
It crawls in from the outside.
Leeches in from within
and no matter how often you purge it,
it returns, sure as sin,
and needs to be swept away
again, and again, and ever again.
About this poem
Substitute your choice of flaws (I have many to choose from) or weaknesses or mistakes or broken places, and you can rewrite the poem to suit yourself. I chose dirt because I just swept out the upstairs of my house.
The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Villiage.