I walk upon this steady track,
no need to chase, no need to lack.
The world outside can rush and run,
but here my gentle pace is done.
Some jog to chase the morning’s fire,
their hearts beat fast, their lungs aspire.
But I find rhythm soft and slow,
each step a whisper, steady, low.
To walk is still to move with grace,
a quiet claiming of my space.
Not every journey must be won
by racing faster than the sun.
So I will walk, not jog, not run,
my treadmill hums, the work is done.
A simple motion, calm and true—
each step a gift, renewed, anew.
Therapy Bits 
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