Decrepit Things

There’s beauty here in decrepit things

Decay giving a face to objects

Once pristine

Rusted metal, the color of autumn leaves

Uninviting in its’ old age

Creaking hinges

like so many locusts

Swarming the newly risen sun

In a dance like smoke

Turning to so much ash

 

When my face turns to rust,

My voice like locusts

My joints creaking

My hair to ash

Decay giving face to me

A weathered soul, not long for this world  

There’s beauty there in decrepit things.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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