The Arching Roots

Stone crumbles where the ivy climbs, A gentle erasure of the mason's pride, As silent moss fills the empty courtyard, Turning the harsh angles into velvet hills.

The iron gate, once black and unyielding, Now bleeds rust into the summer rain, Welcoming the slow march of saplings, Whose roots pry the paving stones apart.

There is no sorrow in this collapse, Only the quiet breath of the earth, Taking back what was briefly borrowed, Folding the ruin back into the soil.