The discarded,
in a broken heap
of sad tarnish,
lie mercilessly
eviscerated
where bright
usefulness
met its
redundancy.
A funereal pyre
without the sweet
lick of fire
to purge and
cleanse,
troubled only by swaggering
gulls
and inquisitive
children
in search of
treasure.
The melancholia
of rust
an ignoble misery
of distress.
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