When we try to hold on

To the handles that no longer turn

The keys that no longer fit

The jokes that are no longer funny

The lies that we told to get ourselves

Through the year of days

We can say that they are full of rust

 

When the hinges on the doors remain stuck fast

And we have hung on to the paper clippings

Of a love that collects dust

The engine and the brakes cease up and fail

It’s time to turn away and admit it’s just rust

 

When we try to hold on to the bubble that’s burst

As we scrabble to catch the fragments of a dream

That is lost

When we choose all the memories of something, we think

Should last

Of all of those who have disappeared into the woodwork

Year after year

We begin to realise that it is all just rust

 

But those that remain are the parts

That still move

Maybe a little jaded pitted and chipped

Rubbed down

repainted

Because they are those that have been greased and oiled

With music

Kind words and love