Boots by the Door

He said he could feel darkness
and smell the colour of her hair.
It once smelt of wild strawberries, but now
the air never smelt so foul.
Each little bit of love he gave
she took, and buried in a shallow grave.

A man no more.
His headstone - boots by the door.

Over the flock he soars
to the place where his mind only knows.
Hands torn by earth, his core eroded,
and it’s the journey that makes the sew quicken.
Each time blinking bits of my soul
off into the distance.
One day a wish,
that dream to be far away,
Free to soar.

Take off the shackles
Jump through the window of opportunity
And you’ll see
That a man is born.

A woman scorns
Boots by the door.