In the field where memories retire,
Lie the remnants of aspired desires,
Junk cars resting, under skies of azure,
Silent echoes of bygone adventures, unsure.
Their once proud frames, kissed by rust,
Covering tales they harbor in dust.
Vines entwined like nature's embrace,
Whispering secrets time can't efface.
Chrome is now shrouded, a reddish-brown hue,
Once a gleaming testament to everything new.
Windows opaque with years of neglect,
Reflecting a past, vivid with retrospect.
Tires flattened, succumbed to decay,
Remnants of journeys ungrasped, faraway.
Seats that cradled laughter and tears,
Now crumbling remains of countless years.
Witnesses to sunsets, as evening draws near,
Guardians of whispers only they can hear.
Time stands still around them in this field,
Where the old and forgotten are slowly revealed.
Yet, there's a beauty in their slow decline,
A grace in deterioration, purely divine.
History etched in each corroded mark,
These machines of motion, now still in the dark.