4/29/03

Red shoes

Worn on the heel

From walking many miles

Who knows where

My only link

To her.

I don't know her name

I never will.

But her shoes

To this day

Touch my soul.

They're in a pile

Of other shoes

Stacked high

Behind glass.

Shoes of people

Who are dead and gone.

A memorial to hatred.

The pile of shoes

Sits across the room

From a pile of eye glasses

And luggage

And rugs

Made from human hair.

Yet oddly

It's the shoes

That are alive.

They bear her tread.

There are names

There are pictures

There are numbers.

But it's the shoes

That she wore

Stumbling

Crying

Fearful at the end.

It's the shoes

That tear my soul

Because she walked in them

Until the end.