A Life of Rust

Rusted pipes end without a destination.
Boilers lay disconnected.
Pumps sit motionless.
If you are still, you can hear drips of water
but it is not clear where they come from.

There is an owl in the rafters somewhere,
a bit confused in the semi-darkness,
still awake in the middle of day.
The whole place looks more like art
than anything practical. Nothing works

but the rust and brokenness have their own beauty,
not unlike a life well lived, complex and old,
yet always finding a new way to be,
time not wasting away, but revealing.

About this poem.

About old abandoned factories, which I love to frequent. About aging and authenticity. (I have become more and more myself as I age.) Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom