wb :

he tired too early-
he who ran the race of rats until his poor lungs,
            his poor heart
gave out and broke apart
not that fate had been unkind to him;
no nightprowlers danced in the shadows,
nor hellhounds raved at his heels;
but he ran
            not from something,
but for something.

he tired too early-
chasing the breaths of fate,
looking for her gossamer web in the dark
clutching at thin straws of knowledge,
            sands of time;
slipped from his fingers, but he tried.

was it the scent of flowers in the breeze?
was it the saltspray of the azure seas?
something kept him running,
something.
one such as he,
already weary from the weights of time
poor in health,
            paupered in spirit
blessed and cursed with the fount of bliss

he tired, for he knew not why he ran.
perhaps the wise greek would have said
all he knew to seek for were pale forms,
shadows of wisdom, love, freedom,
            cast by a blinding sun
that same sun which scorched his gaze
and forced it to the earth

that he could never see with clarity,
and trusted in the charity of the fates
even though the cynics tongue never ceased,
told him that those were shadows of mere idols
and there would never be an end to it,
no white winged angel to bear the grail
            grant him requiem;

so he ran with burdens on his back
he, the piteous journeyman,
            the tortured traveller
seaching for the flowers of the scent,
searching for the ocean of the spray,
searching for the sunlight of the shadow;

he tired too early- he who tried to find
the heart and soul behind his aching chest;
perhaps he ran, that one day he might rest
and leave the race of mice and men behind.