About five years old, a pair of Converse kicks worn out in the heels. So much even no tread is visible anymore. The canvas in the back on the right shoes heel is ripped to shreds, my ratty socks hanging out most of the time. I must have bore more weight on the right. The man made rubber the only thing that is left with any decency.
Tonight who knows where they will end up. Laying here for a while unnoticed, scattered, twins separated. I’ve taken them off and laid them to the side. Side by side with my mismatched socks, one purple, one black, strewn atop. I always craved the unconventional. Anything, everything outside of what anybody would want from their formative cozy box. Real beauty is unconventionally ugly.
Barefoot, the ground cold but soothing, relaxing, ending. Stones jagged but none cut. If they did would be a much satisfying release. I can see the black rails go on, on into the choking thick darkness, the metaphor blissfully apparent. It’s only moments now. I have left my last thoughts, not too cryptic. Those who know, will know. Barefoot, I always imagined heaven so pure that even your feet did not get dirty. People may not understand me in this life, I may not be able to fully explain.
Cold steel, the rails under me, my feet bare but not dirty, I see the lights.