Morning breaks softly a stretch pulls the spine

Morning breaks softly, a stretch pulls the spine,

each pop and each crack like a vintage design.

I wince as I reach for the glass on the shelf,

my body speaks volumes, though it speaks for itself.

The creaks of my back hold the weight of my nights,

a language of worry, of sleepless fights.

Dust motes dance in the light filtering through,

as if they’re composing a symphony new.

Each sound tells a story, of burdens long borne,

a chorus of ache, where the weary are worn.

And here in the stillness, with morning’s soft hum,

I listen to echoes of all that’s to come.