deths dor

I

I
Of the throbbing head
Of the burning lungs
Thirsting for rest

I
Of the stumbling legs
Of the cracking tounge
Gasping for water

The hills have become my master
On and on, I climb

The valleys are not my friend
On and on, I am thrown down by the rough hands of gravity, knocking the wind out of my chest, my heart on the brink of bursting.

My vision swims.

And yet a man is at my back
Guiding, he helps me begin anew
With soft tones, I am convinced to trot like a man hampered by his own weight, then slow to a walk again.

Trot.
Walk.
Trot.
Walk.
Walk.
Walk.

I
Of the satisfied heart
Of the pacified mind
Sipping on water

I
Of the quieted soul
Of the collected spirit
Sitting in rest

I