These feet, cracked like dry rocky earth
that once pleaded to the sky for rain to pour from up the blue,
carry an unacknowledged history of survival.
Each crack tells a road walked,
Each wound carries a weight of memory invisible in the hearts of men
Dust has found comfort in them,
and pain has made a home and dwells in them
But still— they move.
They rise when the morning sun pours its wrath on them
They march through places where hope is buried in the deep ends of the earth
And strength is the only seed that's left of its kind.
These feet have known the heat of long days long gone,
The heat of gravel is a silent agony nobody knows.
They have walked through storms of life
without asking for applause or pity.
Call them names and things
But don’t miss the truth they bear
They belong to someone who refuses to submit to the threats of failure.
And sometimes, survival itself
is the most sacred poetry these feet can sing on their victory day, for they have survived the storm.
©® MZEE MACH
— 10th December, 2025
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