Rusty Steps

Walking up my steps in the rain, cold, tired and hungry carrying a heavy load, I pause unable to avert my gaze from the tragedy beneath my feet.  Gaping rusted wounds ooze dust filled metallic blood lamenting my every step, mourning decisions, begging for mercy and assistance.  I wonder why they have chosen us or us them.  I’m hoping the drenching rain keeps the rust heavy so it settles by the front door saving me from sweeping for the umpteenth time today.  I’d rather the rust not embed itself in my children’s delicate bare feet or my son’s mouth.

Scarlet and orange, angry, ablaze and scornful the front steps lie in a state of disrepair, helpless in healing their plight, reliant on tenants.  The gashes were bandaged with ill contrived rejuvenation and fresh paint, now peeling, exposing deep wounds.


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