Boots For the Canal

Purple and burgundy, vessels of contempt.

Upon the feet of fear,

Worn on the soles of a man broke down.

Accused of heinous acts,

Self-attacked in the face of present freedom,

Black laces, coming sadly unwound.

A thought, they’re just boots…

Coloured, distinctive…

No, they’re a catalyst;

Lewd, disgraceful, impure, malignant.

 

The canal waters asked me,

Who are you?

There was no reply to be had.

Peering into its deep, rotten waters.

Its winding stature.

What did it think of me?

Canal conversations; canal verse.

Stuck in the ritual to rehearse.

The canal, he was all I could manage.

 

Feet of purple and burgundy.

An escape, an untidiness in the act of insanity.

Anxiety, cruel in its force.

Purposeful, ruining, overcoming.

Fleeing from those corridors in tiresome doubt.

After all, they’re just boots…

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7 thoughts on “Boots For the Canal

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