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Placid waters silent still,

encased in panes of sunshine,

through which I see slow-moving lands,

riddled with knolls hollowed by time.

Tumultuous sounds deafened by my own,

hooves and laughter and blacksmith clangs;

puritanic dismissals meets frail subsistence,

and still I’m running, running into mighty pangs.

Unbroken ground slithers under feet,

though the world seems ever constant,

I try to run from all I see,

though everything follows in an instant.

I accelerate my pace to an abundant extreme,

my heart the one to wander,

of water and landscapes and creatures and else,

until you’re dragged asunder.


One thought on “Treadmill

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