Rust

The gears are bound
in years of rust,
exposed to neglect so long
that it is not just their color
that has changed,
but their nature,
paralyzed by their exposure,
by harsh weather,
by a refusal to maintain,
an expectation that their strength
could bear anything
without help.

It would have taken so little
to preserve their strength,
but the cost of maintenance
was too high,
and they were left to face the weather
alone.

Rust can be fatal.
It locks the heart,
and weakens the iron beneath,
changes it’s nature,
creating a beautiful death
ripe with color,
but a death none the less.

Rust can be fatal
unless you catch it in time,
and say “no more”
as you chip it away,
a painful tearing of the paralyzing color,
a blind belief that underneath
there is life.
There is strength,

And you vow never to let neglect
freeze the machine of your heart again.
You will protect it,
even when others will not.

About this poem. 

“Things fall apart”. This line by Yeats may be my favorite single line in poetry.

Things fall apart. Things. Relationships. Our spiritual lives. Unless we maintain them, protect them, constantly rebuild them. In the best of worlds, we have people in our lives who work with us to protect and preserve those things that are important. But if not, it is up to us. Perhaps only to us.

I have no idea where I took the picture. I am always snapping shots of abandoned things. Something about them resonate with me.

Tom