Heavy Knocker

The brass, so old and grim,

held fast to all its past.

I rubbed against the rim,

a fight it would outlast.

The polish cloth grew dark,

a stubborn, greenish smear.

Each scrub left its mark,

but couldn't truly clear.

The tarnish clung so deep,

a history in its hide.

Secrets it would keep,

what lay there, deep inside.

Not bright, not clean, it stayed,

a muted, weighty thing.

Its true color, long since swayed,

no false, new shine to bring.