Orange Rot

The latch refuses every turn,

rusted edges sharp and stern.

Orange flames eat iron’s skin,

frozen fires that won’t give in.

Rain drips slow on weathered steel,

a salted wound too thick to heal.

Fingers grasp but find no grace,

a lock corroded, time’s embrace.

Jagged flakes like scorched decay,

a relic held in rust’s cold sway.