Old Old Corrode ed Lock

Pieces or gray

old weathered wood

who have slowly extricated the nails pierced

into the golden yellow grain

surrounding the tetra

cubed in solitude

for a mysterious box

from a mysterious time

deep in a woods

deep in an index

of one specific mind

an existential manic fury of red brush strokes deep into a quite night. Deflecting a personal rush. An emotional air attack.

Overlooking from a high perch

this old shack sleeps hidden

tucked in by gods embroidering

unapologetically surrendering to decades of storm

and this old old lock corrodes

before the hasp fails

the lock rots inside out

from holding on tight

clenched fist

feigning might

but sounding meek

seeping rust flakes orange and deep

into the earth