Tales of a Worn Shoe
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I can hardly think of anything that more poignantly signifies bereavement than the empty shoes of the dead. The sight makes me weep. It is especially painful if it is the shoe of a toddler. It has been said that dead men tell no tales. I agree. It's their shoes that do.
At the end of life, in a worn shoe lies the story of
a man's life written by foot:
At its tip we see lashings of the million journeys
he attempted,
And in its emptiness the stinging image of loss.
Its fine style recalls the happy eyes that once shone
upon it,
And from its stillness memories of a journey cut
short erupt.
Beneath the shoe lie the harsh strokes of the road
he trod—here a gaping sole and there a tilted heel—
And on its wavy skin we see the rise and fall of
bygone fortune.
In its general look we see the stamp of the wearer's
character: here his caring side & there his daring side.
And so at death we learn that a foot is too small a thing
to fill a worn shoe.
Copyright © Agona Apell | Year Posted 2015
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