#350 (Tin Man)


with red rust

his chest, once shiny

now corroding in

silence, the crows

mocking his fate

two on each shoulder.

No heart for him

because Dorothy never

got the red slippers

and this isn’t Oz anyway.

If only he was made of clay

soon to be eroded by wind

and the ever-pouring rain.

So stoically, he’s suffering pain,

as limb by limb is slowly

brittling and scavengers

quietly whittling away

his former steelen glory,

today a sad and lonely story.


© Matthias Geh, 26th June 2018


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