Chasing Dust

In my room
I made my stand
Chasing dust
With child's hand
The more I pawed
The more I lost
I knew but naught
Of price or cost
'Twas only dust
And I but four
Grasping at
What flew before

At 33
It's all still dust
Priceless years
And wanderlust
The more I reach
The more it scatters
The more I see
All that matters
Not the dust
Whether lost,
Or caught
But child's will
Spoiled naught