Decrepit Things
There’s beauty here in decrepit things
Decay giving a face to objects
Once pristine
Rusted metal, the color of autumn leaves
Uninviting in its’ old age
Creaking hinges
like so many locusts
Swarming the newly risen sun
In a dance like smoke
Turning to so much ash
When my face turns to rust,
My voice like locusts
My joints creaking
My hair to ash
Decay giving face to me
A weathered soul, not long for this world
There’s beauty there in decrepit things.
This poem is about:
Me
Our world