Rust
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Let not the rust on art caricature thy dwindling sights,As all evanescence, art is not evadingto deceive thy worthwhile,As art is thine esteemed friend,thou feel in the absence, it's pungence,
Losing him feels like
a thousand days' rain.
A weathered heart
pumping rusty blood
through iron veins.
When he's gone
a patinated pulse
is all I have left.
I can feel his presence
Come with me where the dead winds hum
I will show you the creatures my mind controls
They are gnashing and and gnawing at the exposed bones
Bleaching in the light of truth
The skin I have shed
