Speed forward stepping stepping
world rushing churning beneath
the feet the soles the soul
heels aching but don’t stop
it’s worth it
it’s worth every second
it’s worth the gold
the goal

the gaol
why do the british spell it that way
one flick of the hand and it’s all wrong
turning churning aspiring artists
into drug addicts
no sensibility
just the ich
just the shaking
just the tweaking
no twerking

but yes yes keep running
asphalt bumpy
tar getting oozy
heels pounding deep into the road
keep on keep keep on running

there is a goal
the puma probably knows better than this
that speed drags the world backward
pulling on the side of the eyes
vision must regulate
snap back so to speak
so stillness even brings forth movement
the breath gets all huffy
the world retracts away
far different from the rushing that is usual

distanced from the world
standing alone
but not lonely
just singular

at peace


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