Ninety Five Percent

I run my finger across the dusty table top.
So thick is the dust it gathers into a fuzz.
I am the dust the dust is me.
Ninety five percent of it, is my shedded skin.
The room is covered in my discarded yesterday's.
Traces of my past life scratched from the surface of my skin.
How can there be so much dust in one room.
Can I wipe away my past, should I even try.
The dust repulses me it scares me, this is my future.
For when my time is past I will become nothing but dust.
Reverting back to the nothingness of what I truly am.
Until all traces of me are one hundred percent gone.