These were all colourless

These were all colourless. You saw them in the long darkness, each with a prick to your independence. You left them behind to comment on you, but, you were and you are absent. You saw a pair of canvas shoes, slightly worn, one next to the other in careful opposition with their toes against the threshold of a door but not entering the room. The door is ajar and darkness amidst light infused steam aways over them. You pick them up, they are filled with cotton. The air is wet. Walking all night in damp shoes your feet grow soft mashing into a trail of grey paste and pulpy paper. You drop card after card until your entire stack of scraps and their borrowed insinuations disintegrate behind your head. Your shoes, your papers, your feet, float into pulpy back waters.