These boots have gathered dust, battered by experience. Their soles have been worn by sidewalks, soil and tar to and fro point A. This leaves me to question where point A is exactly, is; is it where the boots were first put on or where they were put on before the next stroll
They were worn when I was in love, next to me when I made love, perhaps point A is where I fell in love, perhaps its where my heart was broken.
Breaking a heart is the rape of sorts, an unconcentual
These boots are torn, battered but not broken, they will always walk with me till they are of no use, this is when they will be kept – sentimental, but worth very little.
glassesandsmokes 