The Migration of Rust

The red sleep creeps across the iron bone, a slow fire eating what the hammer made. It blooms in scales of dry, brittle orange, the scent of pennies and forgotten rain.

Where the hinge once sang a silver note, there is now a grit, a stubborn silence. The padlock surrenders its teeth to the air, becoming one with the earth it once defied.

Time is a solvent working in reverse, unmaking the hard lines of the industry. We are left with skeletons of lace and dust, the heavy breath of metal turning back to clay.