Glass and Wire

The iron frames surrender to the rust, a slow blossoming of orange decay where orchids once drank the humid air. Now only shadows stretch across the shattered glass.

Vines of ivy map the broken panes, claiming the geometry of human hands with the relentless patience of green. They pull the light down into the dust.

A single fern uncurls in the corner, drinking the rain that falls unhindered through the collapsed roof of the world. It knows nothing of the beauty that was lost.