Dust accumulates, so does our soul’s cleaving to it. A soul catches by pursuit the powdered clay, and melts, cheapened, and dissolves for lack of lift. A soul can faint as a body lacking bread, hugging gravity’s drag. Love defies all, flies away. I noticed something; I wanna go down, I’m one with the tow — “O just a little slumber in myself.” A beckoning, a sirens call, a lure, a lust, a hell-bent, “come down, come on, it will feel so nice.” Now, self-respect cannot accompany; it too walks away. The tax-collector wants his, also; as the wind of waste, so the debt of treachery. Give hell a place, incur a debt, let your hair down; it will yank you lower. Caught; we cry, “O who will deliver me from myself?” “Love, please return to enlarge this tent, set my steps as springs, inspire my well-being, O Word of grace!” “Why…