“When Iron breathes, it burns.”
Earth to earth,
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
there’s a melancholic beauty in the sadness of rust.
A very… slow… despair,
I hope it isn’t painful,
when iron gets a taste of water burning in the air.
Auburn air-burn.
Dark ginger singe just a little off the top, please.
Does metal bellow silent screams
imperceptible
to the human ear,
I fear,
when rusting,
and dusting,
simply following entropy’s lead,
and I wonder,
do other ores hear it clearly?
So I listen carefully to no avail,
even when I scrunch my face to make the sound louder,
and I watch intently to no avail,
even when I don my readers
in attempt to not miss details.
I always fail as iron falls calling me to catch it,
I’m simply too fast and furious
to fathom the extremely shallow depth of
heavy metal’s drowning.
But I can taste its death march.
The earthy tang of rosies.
bitterness of posies,
gritty spittled ashes,
we all
fall
down.
And busting.
A rhyme.
There’s melancholic beauty in our rusting over time.
