These shoes debased and overworn
have seen so much turmoil, eyes made of liquid and pupil
would glance away in awe, in embarrassment
at the tiny roads they've not yet breached,
The memories foaming and the voices rising in the air like chimney smoke
that threatens to sting those same wide eyes,
These shoes eternally old,
Wiser than grandmother of a thousand little lives,
Wiser than the wild-eyed owl, who looks on and says little.

These shoes have had but one master, who has numerous faces,
and whichever one she dons today is the best she has left
for the worst of her loves, the best of her abandon and her abandoned, who envy those shoes who get to keep her, get to hold her and behold her expansive image.
They tell of her not, her bedpost her gesture of affection.
They keep her secrets and she keeps their company.
The wild-eyed owl keeps all under his knowing, secret watch.

-D.

Follow my blog for more of my thoughts on basically everything, and follow me on Instagram @denaeculp.writer and Twitter @denaeculpwriter for more poetry, quotes, and pseudo-inspiring randomness.

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