When I hike, I am in sync.

And when I'm in sync, I clearly think.

My poles hit the rocks sounding out a clink,

The repititious noise setting rhythm to the thoughts I think.

When I clearly think,

I think my mind is a sink,

Stained by streaks of colored ink.

The pain and jealousy burn bright shades of pink,

With black strokes of malice painted old and rank.

And this armor you see is full of chinks,

My psyche more akin to the soft underbelly of mink.

But when I hike and clearly think,

I begin to disregard my faults and chinks.

My mind is washed of the pink and black ink,

The stains circle off the flank,

To the drain in my sink.

As swift as a blink,

I am pushed to the brink.

I become my own shrink,

Dissecting the thoughts I think,

Cleaning my psyche, cleaning my sink.

All while I hike I clearly think.


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