Though Our Shoes Are Worn

Every day we shuffle along.  Though our backs are sore, or stooped, or twinge.
Every day we plod along a little farther.
Even though we may see others sprinting in the other direction.
Our shoes are now all worn out. 
Our feet are sore, blistered, calloused.
Our destination gets more hazy every day.
You would think it would become clearer as we move closer.
Hazier, and hazier still, it goes against logic.
Another burst of reserve and forward again we shuffle.
Every day, every hour, every hard won mile on a dusty road.
Never knowing if we will reach our goal or pass into oblivion along the way.
I don't think these shoes have much longer to go.