THE BOOTS

The emaciated footsteps,
On an airy surge of destitution,
Unnoticed, just another rubble in troubled waters,
His feet burned on a bed of coal,
Where boots, slippers and stilettos,
Tread with indifference.

His eyes were enmeshed in a tripe,
In the intricacies of an alien world,
A pair of boots caught his fancy.
While the entire gaunt frame gasped for another living breath,
The eyes interceded wearily for the scorched feet,
And as he longingly pressed his nose against the dratted glass,
The world seemed to swim past him with ease,
And all the nuances of daily life,
Scribbled so close together on that squalid wall,
That they press together to form a picture of indifference.

He pictured those boots on his bare feet,
Simpering and gazing with interest unwavering,
Until reality smote him hard on his head,
The security had put instead,
A sore on his tiny forehead.

The world has been hard before,
The monotonous reprimands,
Reason or resentment granted,
It was either to be laughed off or lamented,
And then forgotten.
And so the world goes!

A world apart a woman believed,
The wisdom of the parish and the church,
Gathered in a holy cross,
Was squandered away for a bark and a slap,
A curt, clinical bark and a cross-snapping slap.

So gently she, guiding him through the door,
A wad produced from a handy purse,
And with those squeaky boots,
He choked, he squeaked,
"Are you God's wife, missus?"
His heart mirrored the beauty of an angel,
And from her golden chain hung the portrait of a little boy.