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It must be hard on my slippers,
as I drag from room to room,
head bowed like a retreating soldier
blooded in the line of fire.

I have no physical injuries to speak of
no fractured bones, flesh torn limbs,
no need for salve that soothes
or tablets to numb some searing pain.

But, I am shot in the foot,
by past mistakes and sin.
I now stand dissected,
split like loves amoeba.

I wait at closed doors
like a pining dog
at the grave of his dead master;
but they stay unopened, firmly shut.

For living alone, where
there used to be two,
doesn’t leave one....

it leaves half of you.

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The following comments are for "It Must be Hard on my Slippers"
by ograd77

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