they sit by the door
polished and proud
like relics from another time
two wooden hearts
aching to belong
when i slide them on
they carry me
as if i have roots
carved into the floorboards
but they shout my steps
announce my presence
in a language too loud
for walls meant to hold
quiet whispers
i try to tiptoe
try to silence
the clatter of existence
but they do not know
how to be soft
so i leave them there
a reminder
that even beauty
can bruise the air around it
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 6th, 2026 09:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
Offline)
Comments1
It is the last two lines that moved me in this poem of metaphor. Nicely done Gray
Thank You Soren
Most welcome Gray
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