I am rusty. Rusty with dis-use and rusty with age. I am rusty in places I probably won't even see for another decade or two...if I'm lucky. I think those patches come in like a tide washing up on shore. I've walked those beaches and carried home the treasures found there. It's true though, not all that glitters is gold, and I've carried the heavy tingles of what those waves left behind. The fact is, I carry them still. Over the years I've developed a certain coppery patina, a crust if you will. Maybe there's even a few holes in some places. I'm not complaining. Heaven forbid. I've become rather accustomed to the baggage I've created, my impedimenta, my trappings, my back pack full of tricks. This beautiful life I carry.
Shedding and gathering as I go I've discovered that life is a process. Because, I've had to drop things along the way you know. I'm sure as hell not as strong as I once thought I was. Even the air itself turns out to have had a certain amount of pressure and over time these things build up. They consume, they engrave, they eat away at. There have been times when I've had to lighten my load. I'd like to be able to say that I've chosen the things I dropped with great care. But, the truth is, much of it has just rusted away.
Maybe I would have let go of somethings sooner if I'd known. I would have let go of certain people sooner and not carried them for quite so long. Honestly though, when I look closely in the waning light of day, I understand now that we carried each other. I, even I myself, have allowed the rust to accumulate. I haven't always been diligent enough.
I am bent over at times now. There are areas which are corrupted.
Much of which is my own doing. I've carried my own salt shaker.
Learning and experience are an oxidation. And like a nice white wine I've lost some freshness. I have dark places.
Life, when lived well, leaves us exposed.
I know this isn't really a poem. I'm not sure it is exactly what the rules for poetry jam call for. But, I like it. So, I'm keeping it. All apologies for breaking/bending/distorting the rules. I do that from time to time. I'll be better next time.
Also, I am re-learning the rules of writing. Poetry is great because no rules are so artistic and even when there are rules, they are easy to follow. It's been a very long time since I've written prose and I have a goal of figuring it out again. I suppose you could say I'm scrubbing the rust off.
imaginary garden with real toads