He lies quiet, aye —
but it’s no peace.
It’s the kind of pause
a man takes when the world
has worn the edge off him.
No clash of memory,
no grind of purpose,
just that heavy hush
you hear in old steel
left too long in the rain.
Time’s a patient *******
It waits for no one.
It eats.
It stains.
And silence — once a shelter —
turns into the slow, red creep
that claims a blade
no longer swung.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:19 AM UTC
He lies quiet, aye —
but it’s no peace.
It’s the kind of pause
a man takes when the world
has worn the edge off him.
No clash of memory,
no grind of purpose,
just that heavy hush
you hear in old steel
left too long in the rain.
Time’s a patient *******
It waits for no one.
It eats.
It stains.
And silence — once a shelter —
turns into the slow, red creep
that claims a blade
no longer swung.
A quiet study of what happens when a man stops moving, this piece turns stillness into a slow corrosion—steel, memory, and purpose all weathering under time’s unblinking eye. I have used the stillness of rust in a few of my poems, I have one in progress about spring.
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