Rusted, busted

I understand that once, under the rust,
you must have been bright metal,
made with pride
and purchased with a sense of purpose --
a vision of a future (tilled,
planted and with produce later filled) --
as any mother, giving birth
imagines some bright future,
and some purpose for her child,
but must it always come to this,
this harsh encrusted withering,
outliving purpose,
masked by age and set aside
to gather dust,
no longer robust,
entrusted nevermore?