Echoes of the Rust

The iron bends beneath the quiet rain, a slow surrender of the rigid spine. Orange blossoms bloom across the gears, petals of oxidation falling soft upon the concrete floor.

We built our monuments to outlast the sun, tall spires scraping at the indifferent sky. Yet the moss knows only how to climb, weaving a verdant tapestry of rot over our forgotten pride.

Listen closely to the whispering wind, it carries the sigh of crumbling stone. Nothing remains but the beautiful decay, a testament to the fleeting breath we thought would last forever.