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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #1091284
Worn is about a homeless man I once saw in Vegas when I lived there. He really moved me.
Black shoes cold and hard sit
forgotten in the corner on the floor.

The leather is stiff and covered in
dust, they don't walk anymore.

The soles are unevenly worn away
from a life on the run.
The heels have become flattened
from a lifetime of weight.

Years of black shoe polish fail to
conceal the cracks and wrinkles
etched deeply into the skin of
leather.

Eyelets once black and new are
silver and faded with wear and time.

Laces hang limp, broken and frazzled
like single strands of old hair,
having succumbed to a lifetime of abuse
and tight knots.
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