Rust & Regrets.

A poem.


what is left,

when everything is gone?

when the ground collapses

like straw being swallowed by fire

and the sky no longer rises

on our soul?


where can so much love

from a single

lonely heart

possibly have to go,

when there is no body

left to carry it?


who will be left to remember

those things that were left to us,

by the people we loved?

is there any point at all – any meaning in this life –

that doesn’t involve the painful realization

that it’s all just here for a moment, like a dream?


our lives are a moment in time,

imprinted on the earth

like one swift footprint

in the dust,

before the wind stirs us up

and we are gone.


our bodies are destined to rust

and flake,

slowly staining the earth red.


we hold on to precious items –

books, gifts, photos –

all in the hope that we won’t forget,

and maybe one day

someone will hold them

and remember us too.


we run our fingers down delicate book spines,

reading words from the past;

we remember the hope of the souls

who rust around us,

holding their gifts to us tight,

believing they will hold us to this earth just a little longer.


but before long, we too,

are due to be swiftly stirred into dust.

we stare into photographed eyes,

captured in a moment,

wishing for our own moments

to be remembered.


our hearts cave and crumble, knowing our lives are so unrecoverable.


we beg with death to allow us

just one more moment,

to say the things

we wish we had said;

share the things we wished we had shared;

kiss the lips we were never able to kiss.


when death comes for us, what do we have for him?

we bargain our way back to the living,

pleading to let those wishes and kisses be lived out.


what wishes do we really have,

deep in our heart,

knowing they’ll go to the grave?

what moments will we take with us

and simultaneously

leave behind?


we rust, rust rust – oh how we rust –

the colour of leaves in the fall,

stirring dust

just enough

to creep into the lives

of those we leave behind.


the living think regret is for them –

but the dead

are just moments –

and books,

and gifts,

and photos.

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