Rusting Out

everything rusting out:
from my guts inside
to grampa's 100-year-old two-man saw;
and I look around,
and I wonder,
what was it all for?

these things, this life,
those struggles, that strife;
as I move from puddle to puddle,
drenched in their tears,
I see a little magic,
used to dispel fears:
that all of it has been
for naught, and that finally
I ought to be at the end,
ready to rend,
ready or not,
and I am.

January 16, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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