By looking back,
there is a romanticism
in believing that the
way you came is the
only way you could
have come

you see the roads you didn’t take,
the forks you took,
the side alleys avoided or
accepted
and yet

you look at your feet
the dirtied shoes stand proudly
against the dusty ground
and the hole in the toe,
where you can see
the hole in your sock,
reminds you of something
you can’t remember

but you smile anyways

and yet

you look at the road you’ve travelled
the obvious *** holes,
the bridges burned in
your wake, the mountains
climbed over where
passes existed as well

the hole in your shoe
seems less friendly as
you remember how you
got it

you should frown
but smile anyways


that shoe is your shoe
that shoe is you
that shoe is all
those paths you took
and could’ve taken

those shoes,

in their simple
existence,

are proof that
you have
succeeded