The Architecture of Rust

Orange flakes bloom on the iron gate, a slow blossoming of time's quiet teeth gnawing at the edges of our forged intent, where rain has left its temporary signatures to dry into permanent, oxidized scars.

The hinge groans, an arthritic complaint against the wind that insists on passage. We thought the alloy was a final answer to the soft erosion of the marshland air, but the earth reclaims its elements.

A dusting of ochre coats my fingertips, the fragile remnants of a solid frame. In this slow burning without any flame, the metal learns the patience of the stone, settling back into the mineral dark.