Rust Bloom

Orange petals spread on cold steel,

the sharp edges eaten slow.

Blades once bright now wear a bruise

of forgotten time and rain.

Night dew settled in cracks,

a silent feast for what’s corroded.

Rust is patient, it crawls and claims,

a slow bleed of color and loss.

Hands that once gripped tight, now stained,

a betrayal of metal and neglect.

The garden shears hang, dull and waiting,

quiet witnesses to decay.

Oxidation speaks in silence,

a slow crumble beneath my touch,

and I trace the scars,

thinking of all we leave behind,

to rot, to stain, to change.