Shoes by the window

Just beyond the precious silver screen,

(Not of the cinematic variety)

(Obviously of the window variety)

 The piles of

Frosty moths that fill the galvanized sill,

(The galvanized trenches.)

Who were unfortunately unable to get out of

The way of the transparent guillotine.

And all its crushing weight.

That and their short life-cycles.

Are the consequences of their actions.

The consequence of exploration.

A group of shoes lounge,

Like a sleeping cat,

 Laces blowing in the breeze,

Like whiskers,

Like tentacles,

Like tentacles underwater.

These are not forgotten shoes.

On the contrary!

A pair for every occasion! 

This scene would be enough to make any cobbler smile.

These beautiful creations,

Meant to protect

The vulnerable heels

Of a creature

That so recklessly

Steps on the eggs of vultures.

But then takes them off when

They begin to count sheep,

…While quickly losing count.

…While quickly losing count.

This masterpiece arranged carefully in a compromised pile.

By an acclimated,

Well adjusted jury.

A conscripted stack of soles.

A treasury of souls.

Enlisted and tied tightly.

With ears like a rabbit.

Ready for battle at the slightest provocation.

No wads of wayward gum have made the

Pilgrimage.

They were scraped onto

A concrete curb long before this,

Exiled before this era began.

Before these eons began.

Distanced from the humble socks,

These resilient cleats,

Are not running from any conflict.

(However they still provide the most adequate grip)

If running was indeed necessary.

This journey to the ledge of window,

This voyage to higher ground.

Wasn’t a long one.

They only came from the floor.

They easily came from the floor.

With the intentions of pushing all of their monumental efforts,

(As well as their stories)

Through the microscopic cracks in a pane.

To share with the rest of the silent world.

To absolve them of their faux pas.

To dissolve any preexisting premonitions.

Spinning stories of

Championing athletes,

Raising torches

Grinding their teeth.

And work,

So much work.

Mostly work.

Dreaming of outside again,

Dreaming of morning again.

 And of grass,

So much grass

And sand

But mostly sand.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s