The Tin Man. Poem by Jesse Marasco

Nuts and bolts,
Nuts and bolts,
oh, the grind of these nuts and bolts,
The rusted parts that conjoin my faults.

I am the tin man,
the bedridden one with an oil can and dreams of grand.
Scratched and dented at the drawing board by the artists of fate.
I'm the minority in which the majority create,
the odd shade of grey in the gardens of green,
a strange flower that blooms out of place disrupting the scene.

A metal man among plastic crows.
They watch him and laugh,
he knows.
It echoes.
But against the wind, he goes,
Weighing heavy as it blows.