A Crown of Rust
By Brent M. Jones
Once a symbol of pride and grace,
A noble giant held its place.
Now it slouches in the silent grass,
Time and weather let it pass.
Rusted roof to ironed base,
Its glory is lost without a trace.
No craft can bring its shine again—
The sky, the storm, the steady rain.
Faded hues in morning light,
A crown of rust still clings on tight.
Some call it ruin, some call it art—
Where time gave way, the rust took heart.
Thoughts about the Poem
Thoughts About the Poem
Art is, at its core, a process of searching—of seeking meaning, beauty, or understanding through creation. What stirs in the artist’s mind when they pause before a rusted-out automobile or any object marked by time and decay?
Rust, after all, isn’t just corrosion. Its deep red-brown hue belongs to the red family—a color often associated with passion, energy, and emotional charge. It brings a space to life, not despite its decay, but because of it.
When we create, we navigate a mental landscape filled with possibility. We search for a form, a feeling, a fragment of truth. The medium matters. And rust—so rich in texture, tone, and metaphor—isn’t just the end result of time. It can also be the artist’s destination, a sign that the search for meaning has arrived somewhere honest, raw, and real.
#rRust #Rustinforms #RustArt #RustReflectsLife