Metallic

Looking through cold bars,
My breath steams against the grey,
Slowly rusts the gleam away,
My face pressed up against the
Stubborn steel, adamantly robust.

The snake shackles upright, their smoky
Stone what my hands call home,
The corroded cracks under them,
Wholeness they have never known,
Almost as if touch itself tarnishes
That once brilliant chrome.

The wind wails through
These once lustrous pipes,
The once resonant roar,
Now empty and dry.

And in the spaces in between,
I can see things perhaps not so jaded,
Trees that must be green,
Though I can't tell, the colour's faded,
Roads I must have seen,
Or with my eyes invaded.

When I try to lean against
Such a once stable stake,
It crumbles to powder next to
My cheek, the air once so clear
Now opaque, the once dust of metal
Now the dust of stone,
Now a blighted petal,
Rotting on it's own.