A Rusty Bucket
I'm like a rusty bucket forgotten by time no use to man or beast
left in the corner with nettles around my feet.
Blowing winds, blinding snow a sun that blisters deep
and as the season's pass into years.
A rusty bucket has the upper hand for it just sits,
while I must sit and dwell but I am like a rusty bucket
empty, broken and incomplete
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