Dust

First, it's my fingertips.  
I watch them turn white  
then fall as ash to the ground.  
The disease slowly but steadily  
spreads to my hands and up my arms.  
It's got my toes, too.  
I don't notice, at first,
not until I find that I can't stand.  
I look down and don't see feet,  
but legs quickly dissolving  
into piles of soft, powdery dust.  
It's getting faster.  
I have no arms or legs.  
I start to panic as it hits me that  
my body is being eaten away.  
I'm sitting in a pile of dust.  
I am dust.  
Maybe that's all I ever was.  
A gust of wind comes
and I'm gone