Soul of my Sole

The absolute platform of humanity;

If your world is your foot.

A throne, a stage,

An arena for dirt and mud.

Dusty streaks are the mortal enemy,

A soapy sponge becomes the sword.

Flimsy fabric holds together,

A definite extension of your personality.

That pattern describes you as a whole;

If one cares about your shell and not your heart.

And yet sarcastic tone and

Overzealous falsities cannot change facts.

Those hardened soles are grabbed every day

With no hesitation.

Any tightness is promptly ignored.

Fear of losing what has become routine.

Those soles and your soul are not one

But it has become grafted to your body.

Marks of adventure presented every inch

Like some medallion that no one sees.

No platform, no throne.

No stage.

Just the marks of life

And memories plenty.

That old familiarity

Of hardened soles with a flimsy covering.