The Slow Burn of Rust

Tin can in fridge's dim retreat,

its surface blooms with blue-green sweat.

Months forgotten, cold and stale,

a relic of neglect and fate.

I pry the lid, a sour scent,

dragging me to rusted summers spent.

Sun-bleached yard, metal left to bleed,

the slow corrosion of old needs.

Edges crumble, soft as ash,

the metal’s skin gives way, and crashes.

Life fades not in sudden flame,

but in the quiet burn of shame.

The kitchen light flickers, sputters low,

the rust’s slow dance begins to show,

wearing down what once was bright,

until it fades into the night.