Rust

Perceptions form stale memories, which feed anticipation, expectations. The lumbering machine of time grinds on, stamping out reality.

Through the bars of the rusted gate, a garden awaits, choked with weeds. The children are gone. Our play structure verily vanished. Long evaporated echoes of shrill shouts. The stones tell no tales. Silent and damp. Forgotten.

The rusted gate screams, yielding to a rough shove. It clangs, reverberates, bounces back off an unseen, broken block. A sound straight from my prison cell. I shudder, squeeze through the gap.

Things have changed. Familiar, yet warped. Childhood dreams, rust, paint chips rub off.

Picture copyright by David Stewart.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s