Apart From the Decay

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. 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 shades of dark yellow. it seems to pure for its surroundings. the paint speaks through its flat chipped throat lowly. i am apart from the decay. outside the sun overhead has learned to speak in parables but the dandilions dont seem to mind.