Dust: a poem

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Of course you realize that all this will be gone and forgotten
My life.  Yours.
Applauded, maybe, and kicked around now, maybe
Before it goes to dust, and we go to dust, and all is dust  

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My back:  A scalpel into it, then out of it
     setting the stage for scraping, and now
     having been scraped, and ectomy'd, I ache and toss and turn
I may be repaired but I am dust
Dust
The LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground
     says the second chapter of the Book
And after all this time, and all this
     effort, learning, scalpels and A.I. and ectomies,
     drills and gas and glue
We repair and suture and scrape and reconstruct
But we remain dust
The third chapter foretells this of you:
     for you are dust, and to dust you shall return
Our chapters.  Our stories.  Limned in dust.       

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Qoheleth - the Preacher in the Book - knows.   He says it too.  (You can look it up):
     All go to one place.  All are from the dust, and to dust all return.
Even the Bard's prince sees the point:
     What a piece of work is man, says he
     And asks:
     What is this quintessence of dust?     

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But
Though we mark with stones the places where in the dirt we dwell
And it seems so final
     - for, yes, dust we are indeed! And to dust we shall return, yes!
Yet the story is long
King David, concerned, asks: What is gained if I go down into the pit?
Will the dust praise You?
So then: after a turn, the Hero, in the apostle's phrase, destroys death
And turns the graveyard inside out, empty
     Mourning to dancing, sadness to joy
     Dust swept away, with no claim on us
     at all