Silent Signals

Bending down, my knee clicks like an old clock,

a sharp reminder of youth, worn like a rock.

Faded denim wraps around bruised, aching skin,

a tender testament to battles I can’t win.

Each step sends whispers, echoes of strain,

a dialogue broken, caught up in disdain.

What is it saying, this joint full of creak?

A history written in discomfort’s peak.