Circling round a trench, dug by shuffling feet.
He was caught in the momentum of his own turning.
Kicking up dust that rose thick.
Dust that swirled fast and high.
Whipping debris up into the air, stinging his skin.
And he advanced through the storm of his own making.
Until the cover of despair brought him to his knees.
Unable to go on.
When he stopped his shuffling, the dust began to settle.
Falling to the ground, sandy particles sparkled gold as the sun peaked in.
And in stillness the clearing came.