These Old Boots

These boots were once fresh,
a leather pair of strutting
peacocks flaunting
straight laces in full plumage.
They boasted proud soles,
like granite; impervious
to water, stoic in heat
and cold. These centurions
marched to conquer.

Now the plumage, frayed
and faded, holds scuffed
split leather by a thread.
Mile after mile erased
the heels. They are failed
sentries against enemy
pebbles and creeping rot.
These wounded soldiers
wear the perfume of decay
waiting to hike one last
time into the shadows.

For Poetry Thursday; from an exercise in The Poet’s Companion. Photo by Fedot Praslov, used under the Creative Commons License.

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