Poetry – Boots

Black boots, unlaced,
grimed on a shelf,
clotted earth in treads,
belong to no one here.

Ghost boots, mine now,
primed for a meander,
need a cosmic pilot
to walk this earth.

Supple boots, tempered,
blind to any danger,
walk me to a vista
I will never see.

Cruel boots, empty,
disinclined to help me,
surly with the magic,
only these can be.

For Word of the Day – cosmic, RDP – temper, FOWC surly

I have been doing these types of word exercises off and on for years, a great way to keep your creativity limber and your vocabulary strong. (Kind of like practising scales on the piano.) Thank you to all who post them.

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