The blaze in the fireplace burns with easiness, but
without mercy burnt my old boots to grey cinders.
They were made for walking on stony ground, but
time and wear ragged them, they fell out of fashion
and were stored in the shed in a black plastic liner
and forgotten so the one who discarded them should
see them and feel guilty for not walking anymore as
I cycle for my life on the training bike in the yard.
On evenings like this I should be an old man looking
contented into the fire surrounded by pictures of life
lived in faraway places, but I find no contentment.
The sweet taste of success has eluded me, mind I do
have diabetes, and in the end what meant something
ends up meaning nothing; so let the fire of hope burn.