Rusty Bones

My bones are slightly rusty,

Like the Tin Man on day two of his long wait.

Every day starts with a creaking rise from the bed.
Muscles flex and bones groan.
Gradually, my own oils flow to fill the worn gaps.

The body works,

The mind forgets,

(intentional forgetting, I’m sure)

I move down the hill of the day until,

At the bottom,

I fall back into my waiting bed
To accrete a new layer of rust.

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