I touched the fence—rust bleeding

I touched the fence—rust bleeding

through dull gray armor.

Cold bit my palm, rough,

a bite that promised protection

but tasted of neglect.

The metal’s skin, scarred and spotted,

held weather like a bruise,

a body hardened by years

it couldn’t forget.

It stood, unforgiving, between here and there,

a sentinel wearing time like rust,

and I thought how we all try

to galvanize ourselves,

shiny and tough,

but weather still finds the cracks,

where something’s raw,

something’s worn.

And maybe that’s the truth of armor—

it doesn’t stop the storm,

it just wears it silently.