Rust Never Sleeps. But It Dreams.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

     Rust isn't simple, and it isn’t sweet—
          not where I come from.
     And there's the smell of it.
     Lungs rust, blood rusts,
          and it doesn't take long.
     Memories on celluloid rust
          where I come from.
     But then, this isn't where I come from
          and it's rust everywhere.
     Rust forests, rust seas,
          and maps that trace rust eddies under
          reddish skies.
     Living rust
          bursting into bloom according
          to seasons I've never seen before.
     I ogle this rich red forest and
          wonder which way to go.