Rat Race

Effort fails as the rate race
lingers on into the struggle
for freedom, for glory,
for the torrent gaze of immanence.

I fit the patters of which they speak
Torn by the wrecking ball of
destruction, climbing the
steeple steps for respite.

'Maybe they will not find me here,'
I whisper to myself with
a quivering, half-hearted reassurance.

But the other half of my heart
screams in voiceless desperation
to hold onto faith
for the belief that it does get
better than this - and that it WILL.

This other half of my heart
rips apart the half-filled glass,
shards of glass flying,
so that my face- nay, my head -
can plunge fully into the
solace of life-giving water.

It pants for such stillness,
for such escape.