Rust

The strands of wire are rusted, pitted,
fused together in their abuse,
somehow still strong in the midst of storms,
pulled taut, ever straining.
You know they cannot last forever.
You know the day will come when they snap
and all they hold will fall into the river’s torrent
and be lost.

You know this,
and do nothing, trusting
the strength that has always been there,
ignoring each small flake of red brown rust
that falls away,
a silent clock ticking out the days
in a silent Russian roulette,
always ending,
never well.
About this poem

Neglecting the people and things we love, or allowing ourselves to be neglected, is a form of gambling.

Tom