These shoes are made of dirty clay

Run for joyous sticky endeavors

Run faster for vital domestic escape

Ignorant heels and toes talk freely

They care so little as time crawls by

Being little is hollow minus some pain

Shout, glare or slam blameless door

Trigger the required actors of war

Which triggers tiny sacred manic feet

Moves so instinctively fast – are there wings?

Earthly coating clings onto soles happily

Then predictably falls off – so reluctantly  

Survival in the beer stained park – contemplated

Defeated feet, legs and heart feel the answer

Return to horrid question mark

Pray for a quick end and real heavenly shoes

 

 

 

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