Past the chainlink where the factory groans

Past the chain-link, where the factory groans

its last, slow gasp, and no one owns

the quiet rot. A corrugated sheet,

once silver-bright, now can’t compete.

The galvanize, it peels in brittle scales,

like old skin flaking, tells its tiny tales

of sun and acid rain, a steady siege.

Beneath, the iron bleeds, a rusty pledge.

An orange wound, a stain that spreads and sears,

through blistered coat, through all the patient years.

A slow surrender, from a tight embrace,

to nothing but a weathered, ruined face.