The Rusting Anchor

Beneath the restless surface of the bay, where sunlight shatters into brittle coins, iron sleeps against the silt. A forgotten tether holding nothing but the memory of a storm.

Salt gnaws slowly at the heavy flukes, orange blooms blooming in the cold, green dark. The tide pulls and releases, a rhythmic sighing over sleeping ribs that once defied the turning of the world.

Fishes dart through the rusted eye, silver flashes ignoring the weight of history. Here, stillness is a slow collapse, a quiet yielding to the ocean's mouth, where everything heavy eventually dissolves.