The Quiet Rust

The hinge complains in a minor key, a rusted throat singing of the salt that drifted inland when the storm broke. It forgets the weight of the oak door, remembering only the damp wind.

Iron bleeds a slow, bright orange onto the pale stone steps, a slow creeping stain like a shadow that refused to leave with the sun. It marks the slow unraveling of strength.

No hand comes to wipe the corrosion, no oil to soothe the grinding joint. It is a monument to the forgotten, standing resolute as it slowly dissolves into the earth that waits for all things.