The wind whips my hair;

The warm breeze tickles my cheeks;

My body burns, but I've grown to ignore the pain;

I can feel the terrain through my soles as it fluctuates;

My lungs sting as I climb;

I'm far from home and ever so briefly, I think of turning back.

My feet sink slightly into the mud, but my shoes don't mind. They've seen worse;

Following the blue arrows. The forest is alive around me, but I feel like a foreigner, an alien;

Purely a tourist in this land of bark and branches;

Passing through quickly on my way to somewhere else.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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