September Poem 1

I marched.

 

I marched until

My feet were blistered.

 

I marched until

The blisters on my feet popped.

 

I marched until

The popped blisters on my feet

Began to bleed.

 

I marched until

The popped and bleeding

Blisters on my feet

Began to ooze a stinking, green puss

That glued my socks to my feet.

 

I marched until

The wounds on my feet healed,

And the throbbing dimmed

Into a total lack of feeling.

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