This is not the first time.
I often look at my feet
sometimes i stare
rather I prepare for fleet
I have not known any
part of my body
so exact, so replete
My feet are not beautiful.
They are full of marks,
Iced with nicks and cuts.
The skin peeps through
the cracks in my heel.
Sometimes it hurts and
at other it doesn't.
They change in many shades
Like a chameleon on the branch
That darkens, then fades.
They have been in shoes
both of yours and mine.
Same as yours as mine,
yet I like being in mine.
They have travelled a lot
switching the carriages of
shoes, sandals and stilettos.
I was bit by one,
solaced by the other
And tortured in rows.
With the lashing tongue,
the shoes lusted after them.
Flip-flopped aloud luring them,
to enter their world.
I left them all.
My feet abandoned
creatures of false comfort.
Now they are so bare
touching the earth's layer.
The grains of dust
rolling under the toe.
The pebble delivers
the pain of thrust.
They feel the warmth and cold
They suffer, they love, they bleed,
they taste the life to the lees.
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