I run in the dungeon underneath my house.
Done mostly for fun, I run just like a mouse
on a wheel, and feel that simply by going
around and around, in a way, I am showing
the steps to be taken that make running fun.
I know, as I show this, we all have dungeons
that bind and confine us to who we are now,
with thoughts that we ought to find some way, somehow,
to show that we know we can better ourselves.
We read, then concede all our books to bookshelves.
We act, because in fact that is all we can do.
My act's satisfaction runs these words by you.
I'm going to my dungeon now, sentenced to only three.
If that rehabilitates, the results you will see
in every thing I do, compared to everything I was.
Hopes are high, and that is why I write this; just because.
So, see me as that rodent, running right across your floor.
I'm no rat, I'll tell you that. I'm so much less. No more
than suggestions, and blunt questions have it come to pass
that you'll see yet a teacher's pet, at the head of the class,
running on a wheel of steel, or lost somewhere within it.
Words that rhyme are doing time, no matter how you spin it.
So, who can say, "Hi, Runny Mouse. How are you today?"
Can you see prose poetry as something that conveys
endorphins, as your wheels spin for the high life, and living?
It's my gift to give this lift. No doubt, just one mouse giving.
🐁