Oily hands, Ashy feet

He’s been running.
Running barefoot through the streets
Looking for himself
Or rather the best version of himself;
The person he promised
His eight year old self
He’d be one day-
But his search
Has yielded nothing so far.
The dust clings to him.
The mud is now caked
In the cracks of the soles of his feet-
These feet,
That have carried him
Faithfully so far
On his quest,
Are incredibly ashy now.
But he has no time
To wash up
Because the hunger of his ambition
Is much stronger than
Any instinct of self-preservation.
He has plunged
Fingers first
Into the greasy meal
Of quick money and rushed recognition
He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty
No matter what it takes
Open to a compromise,
So eager just to ‘make it’
That it doesn’t matter anymore
That he no longer recognizes himself:
This desperate, ambitious character
With oily hands
And ashy feet.

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