Threshold Grind

A rusty sigh splits the night,

a metal coil unwinds its fight.

Dust falls slow like whispered ash,

old springs creak, their burden brash.

Shadows crawl along the bricks,

a crawlspace breathing tired ticks.

The door ascends with stubborn groan,

metal bones exposed, alone.

Each twist a groan, each turn a grind,

a threshold opening to what’s confined.

Cold air rushes, stale and thin,

a passage forged in rust and din.