As it is.

My shoes are always hungry for my feet; I know my heart isn’t ready for the world at large. My feet lust for soil and hands, for mud and dirt. I could run up the mountain with sweat gushing down my forehead, I’m ready for the flesh wounds, not afraid to wipe that blood. I’m coveted by eternal blankets of changing skies, put to sleep by singing birds and howling wolves. I don’t know where I belong because I don’t want to belong. I’m lost, on the run; don’t want to be found, don’t want to be bound.