Nail on Paper

Punctured, crumpled—no use anymore, Aged and discolored, lost evermore. Once held purpose, now cast away, Time’s cruel hands brush dust and decay. Left by itself, asking why minutes pass, A nail and paper, alone at last. Words once bold, now faded lines, Whispers forgotten, lost to time. Leaves fall slowly as they wither, A lifeless soul—cry me a river. The autumn breeze, a mournful sigh, Tracing echoes of days gone by. The sun’s rays rise, the wind caress, Softly turning notes to a fragile mess. Ink bleeds out like whispered pleas, Scattered by fate on the drifting breeze. Decaying rust crawls my body, Covered in golden perpetual beauty. What’s seen outside is different within, A sharp pain piercing but unseen. Splinters form where touch once stayed, Memories chiseled, yet slowly fade. Hinges creak, the silence sways, As shadows stretch through empty days. A new balance is called upon, Yet still to arrive—that day won’t come. Hung and still, lifeless in a windowsill, Slowly, life lost its thrill.