Dust in the Wind

Fame elongates.
This jam is at best over,
In parts,
It churches on the your nerves
And we all revert to infants.
Dust motes.
The sons of beautiful auroras,
But vileness coats our nullity.
In this,
So little,
That next to the couch,
Are the sexiest of all beings.
The rain non-pluses
And the ice screams,
Queues list,
Clapping atonement dust,
But it is a vague sauce that lies upon the moon,
And also molests the queues.
All this,
Lest all the good mimes are hesitant.
It is all good in the franchise of the fates.
All is dust.