Faded Label

Behind the flour, a forgotten tin,

a small, sad cylinder of rust.

Its paper label, worn and thin,

curled at the edge, turning to dust.

I tried to read the fading script,

some soup, or fruit, from long ago.

But time had peeled it, neatly clipped

away the purpose, left it slow

to rot. A dull dent on its side,

a silent mark of some old fall.

It held, what it once had to hide,

now nothing much at all.

Just metal, quiet, plain.

No date, no promise, no bright art.

Just standing in the pantry's pain.

A forgotten, hollow heart.