I run in a 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 wrote 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 the suggestion of blunt questions has 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.
Who will say, "Hi, running mouse." and "How are you today?"
Can you see prose poetry as something to convey
endorphins to make wheels spin for the high life, and living?
It's my a gift to give this lift. No doubt; just one mouse, giving.
