an old shed leans crookedly in the tall grass.
a door is lifted and opened.
like a warn vinyl record to the needle rusty hinges
snap and crackle as they turn.
between slight variations in tone metallic
yesterdays speak through hinged lips.
i am apart from the decay they say.
now little is inside except some dust with a
few oddities scattered around.
a dented paint can that had been knocked over,
the paint lieing on the floor in a puddle.
dried and splintered out in an ornate pattern
in a shade of dark yellow.
it seems to innocent and pure for its surroundings.
the paint speaks through its flat chipped throat lowly.
i am apart from the decay it say's.
outside the sun overhead has learned
to speak in parables but the dandilions
dont seem to mind.