The mountain of rust dripped its tanks dry

shedding the remnants of journey,

 

the prisoner withheld true tears from his eyes

surrendering himself to the gurney.

 

Neither of which had fashioned their end

envisioning fate in form or time,

 

enabling the factors with which they might mend

the wreck of their ruinous crime.

 

Yet as they lay to rot and to dust

real meaning they found in their way,

 

that all things will be in the ways that they must

that all things should come to this day.

 

https://wolfgarwords.com/2024/03/27/scrap-yard-philosophy-too-late/

 

Written between 18-19 Mar 24