I love these old boots of mine.
Tan and worn; beautiful and priceless.
From the countless hours of hard work to the days filled with trials and tribulations.
Life, lessons, love, and loss have all been sown into these old boots.
The stories and memories they could tell would reveal the strings that keep my heart intact.
Raw and naked they would be.
If only these old boots could talk.
The dirt and mud; needs and wants cover the bottoms of these old boots.
Each a different story each a different vision.
Some were washed away and pushed to the side, others are still there today.
Oh if these old boots could talk.
Each scratch and stain tells the story of the life I’ve lived.
The hardships I’ve been through, the manure I’ve stepped in.
The people I’ve stepped on and the ones I’ve helped up.
Each mark gives em a little more character.
Adding to mine as well.
We’re alike in many ways.
These old boots and me.
Worn and torn; faded and aged; loved and hated.
All for the price of these old boots and me.
No amount could take their place.
They live in me and I in them.
O how love these old boots of mine.