Can you see this rust? This rust,
Like pigeon shit on an alabaster bust
Bonded, as dentures do with that goo
That pink goo my grandpa used as grandpas do
What then of this rust?
Is it brown or red
Is it fine or crusty instead
Does it come with the dew
Or does it come from the sea
Or does it form more slowly, still
I can’t find the source, but it’s here
I can’t know its course, but it’s weird
To know and feel
This rust
It’s slowing down my wheels
Its dust, in my eyes
Its crust, on my heels
I have to shake it off
I have to see the steel
Bring back that shine, that metallic glow
That silvery ebb and flow
Is it iron? Is it tin?
No, it’s something far within
You cannot see it, but you can feel
You cannot touch it, but you can wield
You cannot buy it, for it is free
It’s within you; It’s within me
It eludes us from time to time
Or seems to have died
While still on the vine
Or dried and crusted
Like an old wagon, rusted
But it never truly leaves
You see?
It’s that glimmer, a burning ember
If you will
A brewing storm
Is it real?
If I tried to tell you, I couldn’t
If you asked me to explain it
I wouldn’t, until
A pen I’m given
Then on a page it’s written
And through the rust
Once again shines the steel
