Rust The cycles of life, each different for all, mine is weather blackening, and I heed it's call. Inside I am hollow and yet filled with dust, It's okay, it's all right. It's just my rust. A wasted life, realized too late a journey through wastelands, filled with hate. A king Midas filled with worldly lust, but everything I touch only turns to rust. Anger and rage and anguish and shame, these are my calling cards, my dying name. Never to succeed, yet try I must, worry not, my son, it's just my rust. Nothing goes right when my hand is there, though I seethe and I scream and curse the air. Alone through it all--it's so hard to trust-- just another sign of the unquiet rust. Not a question of if, only of when, when I'm too tired to go on and then I will end. The carrion birds, too, will pick at the crust, of my dying breath, filled with rust.