Tis but the wind

So very hollow,
the dry husk of a man.
Six billion people exhale,
a wind so persistant,
so subtle,
yet so strong.
Grappling,
holding on to what is left.
What is left?
Not enough substance to this being
to keep from drifting away.
Dirty, cracked, and bloodied fingers
hold dear with every ounce of strength.
Slipping,
drifting,
there is no purchase left to be found.
Shaking,
all that's left a single drop
compared to the torrent of ole.
All too hastily the hurricane lifts you up
and off the only ground you have ever known.
Cannot even tremble now,
it is too late.
Fear
is a dead corpse lying gently next to its lover,
Hope.
Funny the realisations that come
when it is all undone.
The fury of the wind minds not at all.
They know you will forget.
It seems you finally found a place
amidst the giant conglomerate of debris.