SANS FOOTPRINTS

Feet into the mud,
squeezing out
every little raindrop
because years are fragile
and this soil, frigid.
Each grimy toe kisses
all sorts of dirt—
sweat and earth.
Albeit the number
of falling grains,
dust remains foreign to skin.
I could only gaze
at my weary sole.
Time hasn’t aged at all;
neither have I.

© Gheeneil

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