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My Father's Shoes
My father, poised behind his pulpit,
graying beard and thinning hair,
authority displayed across his brow.
Words flow passionately from his lips,
a victorious cavalry charging at hearts.
His mind, a golden chalice, overflowing—
a river flooding the congregation
as he imparts his accumulated wisdom.
My feet are inadequate to fill his shoes—
he crafted them with his own hands,
a precise fit for his, feet not mine.
I am not him, I am me, and to each individual
is a pair of shoes crafted by his own hands.
But he has made a way, that I may refer to him.
He lends me the proper tools
that one day, my chalice will overflow.