Warmth and Wounds

Morning chill biting, the radiator groans,

a sputter of life, like old man’s moans.

I jolt as I stumble, the cold metal bite,

memories rush in, like whispers at night.

Beneath its dull surface, warmth waits to rise,

secrets unfold, in its creaks and sighs.

Once it held stories of evenings serene,

now echoes of heartaches, the space in between.

Rust clings like a memory, dripping in time,

I touch it, it throbs, a flicker of rhyme.

For every cold morning, I need to recall,

that even in winter, I can rise from the fall.