Y

The repository of lost socks
Holds many solemn soles
Some bare of thread and full of holes
And some as fresh as ticking clocks
Which have been wound anew.
All linger, looking for a mate
Longing that a match be made
Disregarding size or shade
For function has no room for hate
And what cares warmth for color?
So they lay there, in mated pairs
Pink crew with knee length argyle
Threadbare soles, and ones with toes
Stories worn across the miles
All mingled here in Time's great box
And somewhere Comfort smiles.