The Quiet Rust

Iron flakes return to the earth, a slow surrender under the damp breath of winter mornings. The hinges forget their sudden motion, settling into a stiff embrace.

We leave behind markers of our presence, machinery meant to outlast the flesh, now painted in brittle shades of copper and blood. The ivy climbs the silent wheels, a patient reclaiming of the fractured ground.

There is a strange grace in the breaking down, a softening of sharp edges. The wind moves through the hollow frame, no longer a driving force, just a quiet companion to the dust.