Late night the twist that caught me cold

Late night, the twist that caught me cold,

a sudden fold, a story told.

Knee pressed hard against the brick,

pain sharp as a snapped wick.

It aches in quiet, whispers low,

a rebel's protest, slow and slow.

Each step measured, soft and slow,

a bruise beneath the streetlamp’s glow.

The joint, a fault line in my frame,

a stubborn mark, a private claim.

It holds the weight I wish to shed,

a crooked path beneath my tread.