Friday Opus

Friday Evening Opus 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.