poem

The Shoes I Walk In


These shoes of mine could tell a story if they could talk. And they do, they tell enough, just look at them!

Not the whole story, though, that’s what the voice is for, fill in the gaps for what people don’t see.

Ah, but that’s where I trip up. My voice doesn’t scream as loudly as these boots do. It doesn’t sparkle as much as my heels do. And lately the pace doesn’t keep up with each step traveled.

The shoes in my home are stacked high and low. A different pair for every season. Multiple shoes for the same activity. Winter Boots. Rain boots. Walking shoes. Running shoes. Sandals and flip flops galore. Most of the shoes selected are based upon an upcoming activity, not so much as a statement piece. Except for my recent addition of blood red leather boots, now those make a statement. The “I’m gonna kick some ass today” statement. Yet lately the pace has likened to boots too bulky, too cumbersome, to make any trek productive – trudging wearily through heavy terrain.

“So, get new boots,” they say. And so, I kick them off in search for walking shoes, which will turn into running shoes to outrun the mess I’m in. Anywhere else than where my shoes have been. And maybe one day I’ll see you at the finish line with my head held high, my feet a little sore. Whatever the distance, whatever it takes, to get to where I’m supposed to be. Anywhere but here.

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