The weights collect dust
in the corner.
A sign hangs off of one nail
at the door, border
bound by decrepit paint
chips into oblivion
as the water falling through
cracks in the ceiling
drips at the rhythm or mortality.
Recently
waxing and waning phases
of masculinity
have found the gym fading
fading, faded.
Forever young memories
set between bent syringes
and burst pipe-dreams
have let the machines rust
rot
remind us
that nothing is forever,
but old habits leave brains
faster than muscles leave limbs.
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