The Foot
Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, by baremysole
Once upon a workout dreary, while I trotted, weak and weary,
over many quaint and furious heel-strike, feet now throbbing sore,
while I stumbled, nearly bumbled, suddenly there came a stabbing,
as of someone cruelly stabbing, stabbing at my insole's door.
"Tis an odd pebble," I muttered, "stabbing at my insole's door-
only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly t'was but likely, from the dark pits of my psyche
as each separate worn out Nike, wrought its mark on arches sore.
Lo, though I felt idiotic; - vainly I implored my new orthotic-
mend my arches, end my sorrow- sorrow for my poor foot's core
For the rare and radiant arch once named within this biped's core-
nameless here for evermore.
And with painful step uncertain, pulled aside my mental curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some pebble entreating entrance at my poor foot's core-
Some odd pebble entreating entrance at my poor foot's core; -
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently the pain grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"oww," said I, "You pebble, though small have made running such a chore
And as I run my strength sapping, and so quickly you came rapping,
And so forcefully you came tapping, tapping at my poor foot's core,
That I scarce was sure I felt you"- here I un-shod the poor core,
empty there, and nothing more.
Deep into that Nike peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no runner ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the emptiness gave no token
The only word there spoken was to this biped's unshod core
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back, “ouch- foot is sore”
merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the Nike turning, all my joints within me burning,
Soon again I felt a tapping somewhat harder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something in my orthotics:
Let me see, then what therat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis a poor fit and nothing more."
Now I stood and flung the shod, though not far, it landed whence I trod,
Now stood I, bare and stately, looking on pale feet once sore
Not the least pain in my feet; they smiled back as to entreat
Now set freed and perched below me was my pale white core
Perched in dust and now unshod there was my pale white core
Perched and bare, sore no more
Then this bony foot beguiling my sad frowning into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy form art shaped and true, thou,” I said, “art sure no shoe,
Ghastly grim and ancient foot wandering from the Nike shore –
Shouldn’t I shod you to protect you and your fallen core
Quoth my foot, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly foot to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing naked foot in dust to adore –
Foot or toe upon the dirty brown dust now below me, that I now adore,
And now to shod "Nevermore."
Now my foot, standing lonely in the dirty dust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word it did outpour.
Nothing further then it uttered- no step had it stuttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other shoes I’ve tried before-
On the morrow you will pain me, same as shoes have left me sore.”
Then my foot said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what foot utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some cruel Nike master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till its steps turned arches sore-
Till the dirges of its Hope when shoes turned arches sore-
Cried’ Never – nevermore’.”
But the bare foot still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Hastily found I seat next to my dear feet, looked at arches once held sore;
Then upon the dirt road sinking, I betook my feet though stinking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this fallen arch often sore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and fallen arch often sore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the foot whose fiery soles now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the dirt road dusty lining that the bright sunlight gloated o’er
But whose dusty dirty lining with the sunlight gloating o’er,
shoes shall wear, ah, nevermore!
Then me thought my stride grew lighter, like footwork of a prize fighter
Stride like Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the dusted floor,
"Doh!," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite – respite, delight, from thy memories of foot once sore
Quaff, oh quaff this kind respite, but won’t the foot again become sore?"
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
"Barefoot!" said I, "how very odd! - better still than shoes of devil! –
Whether Nike sent, or over-pronation caused thee foot to sore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this dusty path enchanted –
On this sole by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore –
Is there - is there relief by shoe to be had? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
"Barefoot!" said I, "how very odd! - better still than shoes of devil! –
Whether Nike sent, or over-pronation caused thee foot to sore,
Tell this soul with fit orthotic, makes me run as though robotic,
Shall mine foot have pain thought chronic and remain ever sore?
Clasp arch fallen and broken, which has been forever sore?
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
"To you oh shoe this word in parting, shoe or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting –
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black swoosh as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave arches to be unbroken!- quit the pain that makes me sore!
Take thy print from out my heart, and take thy form from off my floor!"
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
And the shoe, never fitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the pallid dust of the trail just where my once shod feet were sore;
And the Nikes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the moonlight o'er them streaming throws its shadow on the floor;
And my sole from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - Evermore!
Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, by baremysole
Once upon a workout dreary, while I trotted, weak and weary,
over many quaint and furious heel-strike, feet now throbbing sore,
while I stumbled, nearly bumbled, suddenly there came a stabbing,
as of someone cruelly stabbing, stabbing at my insole's door.
"Tis an odd pebble," I muttered, "stabbing at my insole's door-
only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly t'was but likely, from the dark pits of my psyche
as each separate worn out Nike, wrought its mark on arches sore.
Lo, though I felt idiotic; - vainly I implored my new orthotic-
mend my arches, end my sorrow- sorrow for my poor foot's core
For the rare and radiant arch once named within this biped's core-
nameless here for evermore.
And with painful step uncertain, pulled aside my mental curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some pebble entreating entrance at my poor foot's core-
Some odd pebble entreating entrance at my poor foot's core; -
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently the pain grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"oww," said I, "You pebble, though small have made running such a chore
And as I run my strength sapping, and so quickly you came rapping,
And so forcefully you came tapping, tapping at my poor foot's core,
That I scarce was sure I felt you"- here I un-shod the poor core,
empty there, and nothing more.
Deep into that Nike peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no runner ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the emptiness gave no token
The only word there spoken was to this biped's unshod core
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back, “ouch- foot is sore”
merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the Nike turning, all my joints within me burning,
Soon again I felt a tapping somewhat harder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something in my orthotics:
Let me see, then what therat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis a poor fit and nothing more."
Now I stood and flung the shod, though not far, it landed whence I trod,
Now stood I, bare and stately, looking on pale feet once sore
Not the least pain in my feet; they smiled back as to entreat
Now set freed and perched below me was my pale white core
Perched in dust and now unshod there was my pale white core
Perched and bare, sore no more
Then this bony foot beguiling my sad frowning into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy form art shaped and true, thou,” I said, “art sure no shoe,
Ghastly grim and ancient foot wandering from the Nike shore –
Shouldn’t I shod you to protect you and your fallen core
Quoth my foot, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly foot to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing naked foot in dust to adore –
Foot or toe upon the dirty brown dust now below me, that I now adore,
And now to shod "Nevermore."
Now my foot, standing lonely in the dirty dust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word it did outpour.
Nothing further then it uttered- no step had it stuttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other shoes I’ve tried before-
On the morrow you will pain me, same as shoes have left me sore.”
Then my foot said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what foot utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some cruel Nike master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till its steps turned arches sore-
Till the dirges of its Hope when shoes turned arches sore-
Cried’ Never – nevermore’.”
But the bare foot still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Hastily found I seat next to my dear feet, looked at arches once held sore;
Then upon the dirt road sinking, I betook my feet though stinking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this fallen arch often sore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and fallen arch often sore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the foot whose fiery soles now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the dirt road dusty lining that the bright sunlight gloated o’er
But whose dusty dirty lining with the sunlight gloating o’er,
shoes shall wear, ah, nevermore!
Then me thought my stride grew lighter, like footwork of a prize fighter
Stride like Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the dusted floor,
"Doh!," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite – respite, delight, from thy memories of foot once sore
Quaff, oh quaff this kind respite, but won’t the foot again become sore?"
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
"Barefoot!" said I, "how very odd! - better still than shoes of devil! –
Whether Nike sent, or over-pronation caused thee foot to sore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this dusty path enchanted –
On this sole by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore –
Is there - is there relief by shoe to be had? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
"Barefoot!" said I, "how very odd! - better still than shoes of devil! –
Whether Nike sent, or over-pronation caused thee foot to sore,
Tell this soul with fit orthotic, makes me run as though robotic,
Shall mine foot have pain thought chronic and remain ever sore?
Clasp arch fallen and broken, which has been forever sore?
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
"To you oh shoe this word in parting, shoe or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting –
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black swoosh as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave arches to be unbroken!- quit the pain that makes me sore!
Take thy print from out my heart, and take thy form from off my floor!"
Quoth my foot, "Nevermore."
And the shoe, never fitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the pallid dust of the trail just where my once shod feet were sore;
And the Nikes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the moonlight o'er them streaming throws its shadow on the floor;
And my sole from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - Evermore!
