they are *****
ripped and torn in places,
the treads on the bottom long ago
lost their roughness,
so the footing is no longer secure.
they are comfortable,
stretched out along the contours of me,
a familiar sight among my belongings,
a color my eye is trained to seek out
even in the darkest of nights.
but these shoes do not belong to me -
they belong to the man who bought them,
for whom they were an inspiration,
a way out of a previous life,
a means to further himself,
to become more.
I have been trodding in his shoes,
feeling his pains and triumphs,
knowing his path,
for it was my path,
and i am no longer the man who bought these shoes.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
they are *****
ripped and torn in places,
the treads on the bottom long ago
lost their roughness,
so the footing is no longer secure.
they are comfortable,
stretched out along the contours of me,
a familiar sight among my belongings,
a color my eye is trained to seek out
even in the darkest of nights.
but these shoes do not belong to me -
they belong to the man who bought them,
for whom they were an inspiration,
a way out of a previous life,
a means to further himself,
to become more.
I have been trodding in his shoes,
feeling his pains and triumphs,
knowing his path,
for it was my path,
and i am no longer the man who bought these shoes.
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