Used Shoes

Used shoes,
battered
and trampled upon
with tied down tongues
and worn out soles;
full of rain.

 

I feel how you look;

worn and worn out
by miles of life.

 

And my brain feels
like the worn down labyrinthe
of your grips
that no longer grip as well.

 

But, atleast, I suppose,
if we stand for something;
if we march for something;
if we go somewhere worth going to;
even if we dance
or leap just a foot in the air;
dip our toe into life
and leave our soul print upon this world
then though, with our holey soles,
we are put into boxes
and discarded

though we may not walk any further
still we are not defeated.