Old Boots

It is so difficult to carve a new magic
With tarnished tools
It is as they say the difference
Between triumph and just dirty dishes

Sometimes
I feel the vibration of it calling me
A briefest of whispers on my skin
And other times I feel the cavity
Hauling me in

And I don't know if it's the best of mankind
Which calls, driving my aspirations
Or the misplaced noise of greeds that consume

So many stories I let die
Is it apathy or lack of courage
The failing parcel of my making
Destined to mark my wandering footfalls
Muffling them to even me

What is wisdom if not shared
What is art if not seen
What is a life if not inspired
It is an existence in old boots