weathered &
rusted
raindrops kiss iron
a little too hard
while iron seeks solitude
we all want a say in the matter
sheltered from what forces us
to change shape
roots grow amid ashes
only to catch fire again
even the wind wants to run
but cannot
the more that it tries
the more it becomes
the cannon-smoke
that paints the sky
red
like tips of fingers
carved from sharp objects
and nylon strings
warming the cracks
of fractured canvasses
that spell out your name
as you drift unknowingly
above the wreckage
I am there
engulfed by debris
bearing
glue
a hammer
nails
one’s that aren’t quite meant for me
my hands are too small
the nails are too short
the roots are too deep
I am without a shovel
and so,
what remains begins to rot
and with it
so does love
