30.03.26
I wash away at shores,
like shoes sand-filled; heavy and unchanging.
My laces bound tightly in place
yet the waves ambush me, over and over.
My soles are covered in sea glass,
crabs sometimes my visitors.
My fabric is tattered and grey
washing away and away.
If my cotton could sprout
a beautiful, pearly, maiden
I'd roam the oceans free
no soles, no ties, not sand laden.
Nonetheless, I wash away
as your rugged pair of shoes.
I'm the son you wished you had,
and I'm all you've got to lose.













