The touch of ever-aging.
7.17.18 – Over-airing
I was jealous of the rust, resisting that metal’s grasp and making its way through link after link like they all were the weakest version that could be crafted. It was busted just from breathing too hard and left its marks like oval teeth on the skin about its reign. The earth was eating it up as well, seeds weeding between the gaps and finding a familiar browning as it sank further into the crust. There would be a divot left as the only marker for making a new set of dust in this place, its evidence cleared by a patient hunger for change.
There were other artifacts threatening extinction, most reddening like it was this season’s fine fashion, but those clasps were a binding force for the lot. I had always expected rain to be the precursor to such a monochromatic display, but we’d only seen the sun swelling like an autocrat ascending the throne for these past months, beaming and eager to display that power in full view. It had been putting the wear on this iron rubbish and stripping it of a silver luster long enough for us to have forgotten what a shine was. What remained was quickly returning to a poor array of burdensome and depreciating rare earth.
The crowd was gathering and causing a riot to the coffers. Maybe degradation wasn’t the right way to tear this pile down, but it was the easiest means that time could provide without further divine intervention. I wasn’t sure these things could still call down the lightning and if they could that it wouldn’t do more than burn them into a bit of crimson glass, still just as shattered as before. Reclamation here was a concerted effort, one where chains weren’t cut but instead left to erode off of wrists and leave only the barest bit of scars. Deserving wasn’t a defined determination.