My Life In Word

Runner’s High

The road unfolds, a ribbon thin,
Each breath a match, each stride a win.
The ache arrives, then slips away,
Like doubt that cannot choose to stay.
My lungs complain, my calves ignite,
The mind says stop—my feet say fight.
Then somewhere past the counted mile,
The body breaks into a smile.
The world goes quiet, sharp and clear,
The pounding heart becomes a gear.
I float above the burning ground,
No weight, no clock, no inward sound.
Pain loosens up its stubborn hold,
The air tastes bright, the light feels bold.
I am not running—I am run,
By sunlit road and rising sun.
This borrowed bliss, this fleeting flame,
Has no demand, no need for name.
Just motion clean, just pulse, just breath—
A holy truce with time and death.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Mathias Reding on Unsplash

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