Just took a walk with my parents; it inspired me.

The wind cuts the clouds into piano keys,
ivory clouds divided by strips of ebony blue sky.
People keep walking by, focused on nothing.
That must be nice, huh.
To be able to let your thoughts dribble down,
off your brain,
through your lungs,
and out your heels
into the pounded dirt.

But not me; oh, no.
The mountains are layered upon the horizon,
thick, green slabs of paint smothering a canvas of sky,
like how my thoughts smother me.
They pile on one another - 
four. More, even.
I can't stop thinking,
no matter how hard I try.

My lungs plead for oxygen desperately,
fighting feebly against the cage of my ribs,
but I ignore them.
Maybe that is my motivation to take walks; 
maybe thinking is the reason I do.

People say jogging helps them think;
I say walking lets me think - 
most of the time, I suppress my imagination
for fear that is shall go rampant
and manage to find itself at my fingertips,
making me do things
 - things -
things I do not want to do.

But when I walk,
I let my thoughts bloom bright,
steady, constant;
like the flowers that grow wild in the grass,
screaming pink,
like the sun as it sets behind the mountains,
setting them aflame.

The End

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