Motion

There is a joy that comes with movement.
a furious, feral delight 
in the drum of the feet and the thrum of the heart, 
each crashing against their respective anchors, in a desperate dance to be free. 

I have always been a creature of movement.
Right down to my core.

Even on days when inertia drags me down,
curl it’s tendrils through my clockwork heart
clogging cogs and stalling the seething, simmering need to move,
I feel it.
Like an inner itch, a wild thing
which on the best of days will leap into my limbs and throw itself, with ferocity,
into the song and dance of the body at work.

It is the way my mind will slip
the tremors in my fingertips
the perspiration ‘round my lips
that drives me ever further.

It is the hot and heavy breaths
I throw behind, in curling wreaths
that trace my figure, newly left
as I race on in fervor.

For I am a creature of movement.