Shoes in the Mud

Standing on a roof alone at an endless night,

Watching the stars as Earth rotates slowly through the dark.

A gentle breeze holds onto the cheeks of mine,

With curiosity in my heart, I step on a brown tile.

I would like to know about the pieces of the same puzzle,

All scattered on the streets, puzzled.

I wonder what would happen if only they were all together,

What would the picture look like when they are all gathered?

All of a sudden, I am not on my own,

But being followed by a rythmic, continious sound well-known.

It was the sound of a pocket watch that I heard,

Which understands when you are unconcerned.

Only then, it stops ticking,

And leaves you alone, conflicting.

Am I dependent on the sound,

Or the sound needs me to be found?

Shoes on the streets, covered in dirt,

They make me feel disgusted, hurt.

With the first drop of rain falling,

I look at the sky, smiling.

Now, every dirty shoe shall pay the price,

For stepping on the wrong stone more than once.

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