The dust that haunts corners of these rooms

The dust that haunts corners of these rooms,
Were once tears that were held back from my eyes.
Enough to make indoor deserts and dunes,
To reach me, each piece of me you must find.
Countless my bloody footprints have misled.
My fingers will tap dry rain on your head.
Worse if you find this parchment and have read,
This sickness that only by words has spread.
Once upon a time, there was one way out;
Through the Good Wood; flesh enters, leaves in print.
Read so many who started out valiant,
Only one made it to and past the end.
I am made of many pieces of them,
But being their sum, I am now nothing.