The Sock And The Sock

The curly woolen threads
Hold on to my toenail.
Diving deeper, sometimes.
Sometimes, not wanting to let go of it.
Like they’ve been freed;
(Freed from being together)
Tied and woven.
Woven into a sock
They’d never wanted to be.

The sock probably had no idea
That its better half existed.
Maybe there ain’t anything like better half
For socks, ofcourse.
They must be called twins, ofcourse.
When one finds itself a better place to be in;
(Rather a better foot)
The other becomes the scapegoat.

The lost sock loses its cryptic smile.
Perhaps,
The smile grows weary,
When it remembers the nail;
(Yes, my same toenail)
Crooked and blemished.
But my nail has no divers now,
For the sock—
The then scapegoat has found itself a better foot.