Not the ones you might imagine. <br />There must be peace for those. <br />I am speaking of a different kind, <br />made by different feet- <br />the foreign ones; the armored ones. <br /> <br />These feet do not walk, but run <br />like hell, hell whose fires <br />have unpronounceable names. <br />The sand I know borders no ocean, <br />but shifts and flies in the face <br />of everything- silk women in sandals, <br />the marketplace, change. <br /> <br />In such a place, steps are fleeting; <br />we make our marks in other ways. <br />And rest assured, despite what some <br />proclaim, we are not carrying Jesus.<br /><br />Lori Boulard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/002-footprints/
