Some people scurry along the beaten path
like bloated brown rats under the yellow street lights
in the black of the night
looking for scraps of flesh and blood and dreams and hopes
anything to stuff themselves with
trying desperately to fill the black hole in their soul
for one more night
so they can go on scurrying
blindly driven forward by the tide of greed and lust and hunger and thirst
and they never stop
to think
because it’s too hard to face their own shriveled heart
that never beat to anything except the Pied Piper’s drum.

I never speak to such people
as I dawdle through my own life
wondering if I’m on the right track
almost sure I’m wrong
almost sure I’m a loser who thinks he knows better than everybody else
but is really just another rat that’s going to get eaten first
and maybe I am a rat, maybe we all are, just rats
and if so then why run all our life without thinking or seeing or hearing or listening
why not stop and rest and look around and see if there’s actually something chasing us
and if not then maybe it’s okay to stop running
maybe it’s okay to explore
maybe it’s okay to be the loser that wandered into the jungle and got eaten first
maybe it’s okay to live a little, while we have the chance