Seized

The wrench, Grandfather's, on the concrete floor.

Silver gone, a coat of orange dust.

It flaked when I touched it, raw and sore,

a thing consumed by slow, wet rust.

The jaw was open, fixed that way,

no turning back, no tightening grip.

It had surrendered to the decay,

a useless tool, from wrist to tip.

I tried to force it, felt the grit,

the metal fused, a silent plea.

Some things just settle, stay and sit,

until they're nothing, finally free.

But this was stuck, its purpose lost,

a monument to what would fail.

A stubborn, heavy, metal ghost,

against the creeping, constant trail.