Rust

The empty shell is full of dust,
Nothing within to light it whole;
Its walls—once bright—are full of rust
And its downfall one can’t ignore.

No sign of art to give it life,
No treasure here to be revealed,
Just black and rust spread out inside,
The dreadful fate has now been sealed.

Or so it seems, as time flies by,
Leaving its trace on empty walls;
It paints with colours of a sky
Cursed by a thousand one black holes.

Degrading into pecks of dust,
The shell becomes one with the wind,
Flying away—a moment just,
A falling star thus mirroring.

– Patricia