The Architecture of Rust

The iron gate surrenders its sharp edges to the slow, orange feast of the rain. Oxide petals bloom in the hinges, a quiet erosion of yesterday’s strength.

Time is a granular sediment here, coating the gears of the forgotten mill. The river hums a low, abrasive song against the skeleton of the bridge.

We build monuments of unyielding steel, forgetting that air is a patient solvent. The landscape breathes in red and amber, returning the structure to the earth's soft palm.