Rust

Old paint cans collecting dust

moved outside to dry up

turn to buckets of rust

when the scratchy throat sky

rubs the dust from its eye

finally heaving a cry into mud

 

*It’s a couple days late as I’ve been doing my most recent posts from my phone, but here’s the poll for last week’s poems and pictures. As a reminder, these polls will be used to choose the entries I will publish in a book at the end of this project. These books will end up for sale and given away as prizes to my faithful blog readers, so be sure to vote if you’d fancy one for yourself someday! You can vote any time until the end of the challenge.*

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