#stillnessisrust
All winter they waited,
the ***** the fork, the *** —
lying quiet in the shed,
their edges softened
by months of cold forgetting.
Rust took them gently,
a thin red bloom
on every blade and tooth,
as if the earth itself
had marked them for rest.
But spring steps in
with a warmer hand,
and the gardener lifts each tool,
feels the weight,
tests the tired shine.
A little toil,
a little sweat,
and the rust gives way
to honest steel again —
bright where it matters,
strong where it counts.
Then back into the soil they go,
cutting, turning, waking the ground,
bringing new life forward
with every stroke.
We weather, we dull, we wait,
until the world calls us
to rise once more,
polished by purpose,
ready to make things grow.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 5:38 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.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:19 AM UTC