I will escape to the hills and mountains when I can
My escape every Sunday if I could do so
I’d do this forever if I was immortal
Spending my time on the high ground
Climbing the hills and looking into the valleys
Slowly venturing into caves and the abyss
Collecting rocks and minerals from the ground
Finding old lost aeroplane crashes and their stories
Swimming in cool clear mountain pools
It simply cannot be better than this
If it was possible I’d climb every mountain
On every planet in the ******* galaxy
If only it was possible...

It all takes place on the mountains where the yellow sun
Meets the sky blue sky in a joining of colour without cliche
The trees look airbrushed on a canvas stolen from water colour
That sky hints and hides so many things both visible and not
Moonshine stills secretly simmer under the generous leafy canopy
A broken-into-pieces warplane sits by the ridge right at the top
Inside a small cave little people party and count their gold
Human hikers brave the heights and risks to hike for a day or two
Wild animals like wolf and bear live without fear up here

To run through the grasses, grasses of tall blades of purple and emerald.
Splendid views from the final steps.

With weeks passing, each step guiding me to the final destination, time blurred.
So much monotony bring the worst out
in weak-willed men.
A hike of millions of inches.

A backpack full, practically dragging my shoulders to the ground,
Always eliciting shouts of impending scoliosis.
Yet after three days, the bag blended in with the air.

Before

My feet are big
And growing ever bigger.
Large, wide,
And filling every shoe.
They stick out from me
Making flats look ridiculous.
They are like life rafts,
Falling to the side like pillows
When encountering resistance.

After

My feet are long
And growing ever stronger.
Supportive, storied,
And deserving special care.
When pointed, they are elegant,
Skeletal and muscular, even when in heels.
They are like canoes,
Chiseled and carved with love,
Gliding forward with intention.

I've woken up in the middle of the night.
I never got around to closing the blinds.
The only sounds are that of my still, sleepy breath,
the near silent roll of tires on the snowy street.

We were hot on our hike,
So we stopped by a spring.
After soaking our feet for a moment, you lay down to rest.
You're asleep now.
The hot sun warming my back,
The water nipping and chilling my feet,
The occasional splash of a from in the shallow pools,
And the steady, pulsing wing breathing fresh life into my lungs.

Ducking underwater when I'm the only one in the pool.
A quiet, turquoise haven.
There's no splashing,
Yelling,
Clinking toys;
Nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

It's as if we're climbing
over mountains,
except by some cruel trick
we trek along the fault line
rather than across
and as we crest each painful saddle
there is no choice
but to slide back down the other side,
blistered, limping, starved,
and carrying too much weight,
hoping the next peak
will be the last.

Except,
it's nothing like climbing mountains,
for at least in the mountains
I can breathe.