I found it buried—

I found it buried—

a scrap of metal, fragile as old bones.

Rust cracked like old skin,

orange flakes dusting my fingers.

It’s eaten through,

thin where it should be thick,

twisted and weak,

like time leaking away

from something once solid.

The earth holds it still,

corroded slow,

a quiet undoing that no one hears,

a slow fade beneath the dirt.

I lift it carefully,

a weight of forgotten years,

a reminder that even steel

is no match

for quiet corrosion.