I think, in reality
Our shoes are made of glass
Cold, translucent with a slight fog, glass

Even though our toenails are ice picks and heels are cement,
Our shoes seem to provide a layer between the earth and our feet

And, from what I gather, they're sturdy
Having yet to chip

Lately I've been living looking only forward
Paying no head where I step
Ocassionally my sight will be so far in the distant,
I'll stumble and trip over egg shells

As the bags under my eyes deepen, the gloves I wear, in contrast to my shoes, grow heavy
My steps are light, but are slowing to a halt

The strain on my wrists leave me curious
But my fingernails weigh my hands down, keeping me from lifting them to eye level
I'd shrug if I had more shoulder strength



© Marah Schneider