The Shoe Box

One size does not fit all and the shoe horn stuck out Tim shooed away foot prints ghosts and memories When the clock struck midnight at the end of the year Not much had differed when the fire works stopped But resolve had to tighten the strings attached to his soul Colour from outside of the box seeped through inside Varnished the leather and the diamond soles of his mind Weather worn foot wraps were made for walking untoward His nib had not faltered much but he changed his ink From angry red to soothing violet and indigo shades The fountain pen was still the same old Mont Blanc And valleys and hill tops rose among magic mountains But when he scratched the core of granite and gold He decided to rub out volcanoes from burnt paper Left just enough residue to shine through the pages Snow boots slipped onto parched story narration Sandals sneaked cautiously to the front of the stride Loafers pumped springs into well trodden steps Moccasins flip-flopped as time poured into sand High heels towered over a platform of high tops He wondered how it was to march in peaking stilettos To parade in high heels and low altitude of change As he approached the fields and trenches of Flanders Planted poppy seeds resting on unmarked wooden graves Tim paused in thought and replaced the cartridge once more 04th January 2020