Colored Canvas Cool

I paint the shoes that once outran the dawn,
Their soles still whisper miles into my hand,
Each scuff a map of mornings not yet gone,
Each crease a vow the body dared and planned.
The canvas curves where asphalt met the will,
And sweat became a language of its own.


I mix the colors fast, like breath and pace,
A streak of red for lungs that burned to fire,
Cool blues for nights when pain refused to chase
The stubborn joy that rose a little higher.
The laces hang like lines of measured time,
Tied tight to faith, then loosed at every mile.

My brush remembers motion standing still,
A frozen sprint held gently in the frame.
I shade the heel where doubt first tests the will,
Then light the toe with hope that stays the same.
These shoes once learned the grammar of the ground,
Now teach my hands what speed has left behind.


At last I sign my name beneath the tread,
Not as the runner, but the one who saw
How flight lived briefly where the foot once led,
How art begins where effort turns to awe.
The shoes keep running, even as they dry,
Across the wall, forever passing by.