Rust

He whiled away time all his life.
Sleeping, lazing around, never using his brain.

But as he gnawed at his minutes one by one, doing nothing.
The minutes gnawed right into his life, picking him apart.

Years later, a smattering of red sores started growing on his skin
The pain was fierce and he couldn’t take it.
The sofa he lazed on for most of his life became his death bed.

Like an un-oiled iron bar, he withered and withered.
Powdered with rust, which slowly killed him away.

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