It is not just metallic but the taste of rust on my fingers
It is not only dust but the smell of must that lingers
The rough touch of cutting black corroded steel
Red flowing blood warm rivulets droplets to feel
Drips echo hollow ripples on a concrete floor
A hot cast iron stove glowing visions of the poor
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Author:
sorenbarrett (
Offline) - Published: April 5th, 2026 03:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15, Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS
- In collections: Adversity, Nostalgia.
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Comments7
Good write SB. Rust and dust for KP! lol.
Thanks so much Orchi for the read and comment. Don't go making me hungry now.
It's strangely beautiful. The imagery is intense and tactile.
Thanks so much Ellen for the read and comment it is most gratifying that you captured the essence of the poem so quickly. Indeed the difference of the new and the old is in the breadth of sensations with the old and the narrowing of the new to visual and auditory. Your words are most appreciated
good write my friend, much enjoyed
Thank you so much for the read Norman and kind words of support they are most appreciated
most welcome
This reminds me of something hidden in a piece of wood in st Peters Square Rome. 🌹
Thank you my friend for the read and comment it is deeply appreciated and as for that hidden object I will wonder
It hangs in the air like an oppressing industrial scent of laborious dawns...
Thanks so much Lorenz for the read and comment. Yes fumes from the past
Rich images. Excellent!
Thank you Katie I appreciate your read and kind words
Blood seems to traverse the elements with equal presence. 🩸 🙏🏻🕊
Thank you so much my friend. Indeed you see this too, how marvelous. It contains Iron like the stove, water of life and is the line we follow to our origin.
Quite so and it’s scent attests to all these as well 🩸🙏🏻🕊
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