Groan of Steel

Late night’s breath hangs still, thick and held.

Then—

a slow groan rumbles,

a rusty claw pulling the quiet apart.

The garage door creeps, reluctant and jagged,

sounds like an old man waking

with bones stiff from years of dragging.

Shadowed clutter shifts in the weak light,

a chest of forgotten moments piled in the gloom.

That creak slices open the night,

drawing me back

into rooms where things don’t speak,

only wait.

And I stand there,

hearing what’s never said,

the unsteady promise

of whatever lies behind that steel gate,

the silence left hanging

in the slow crawl of iron and grit.

The sound breaks.

But the weight remains.