Boots

BootsWorn is the leather that shields your stride.

Damp from wading in at the seas high tide.

Aching arches, calloused heels, walking endless hills.

Blistering first and sometimes cursed, often smelling their worst.

Pounding paths through desert lands, filled with times grinding sands

Emptied now of the life each held, another warrior felled.

Standing alongside your rifled friend, creased, polished, laced at the end.

They severed you well, before you fell, your memory now they carry and tell.

Along with those still laced and ready, we salute each, freedoms warriors true and steady.

WAManning

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