Filled a Mold

Out here in the dusty jungle,

the rust tries to defy

the clearly defined mold

of its previous life.

It’s been told one too many times

to fall into line.

He said “Well, fine!

Why don’t I just deconstruct entirely?”

Now he feeds the grass and trees.

You can smell his blood on the autumn leaves,

and on the breeze, he laughs

because he doesn’t rely on gravity.

Out here in the blustery jungle,

the rust defies the laws of the foundry,

and the dust forgets entirely

that it ever filled a mold.