eight hundred meters repeats
one hand over the other
smoothly striding my way down a path of gravel
it crashes with my feet, they are brittle
they crumble and stumble
Hand over the other
breaths that I take and that I forget
that the meadow again blooms  
mouth dry and throat sore
again I am doing what I feel most alive in
one hand over the other
I stride down a mountain  
it takes away from what I can
I build from what I feel
and again I want to leave the comfort
the comfort of being alive
eight hundred meter repeats.