Running
The wind whips my hair;
The warm breeze tickles my cheeks;
My body burns, but I've grown to ignore the pain;
I can feel the terrain through my soles as it fluctuates;
My lungs sting as I climb;
I'm far from home and ever so briefly, I think of turning back.
My feet sink slightly into the mud, but my shoes don't mind. They've seen worse;
Following the blue arrows. The forest is alive around me, but I feel like a foreigner, an alien;
Purely a tourist in this land of bark and branches;
Passing through quickly on my way to somewhere else.
This poem is about:
Our world