The Edge of the Maze

Quiet words.

The Edge of the Maze

I witnessed the rats.
Not from above,
not with judgment or safety,
but from the edge of the maze—
close enough
to feel the heat
of their desperation.

They ran.
Grey bodies slick with exertion,
breath ragged,
eyes burning
with something that wasn’t hunger.

They weren’t chasing food.
They were chasing
the shape of something better.
An idea pressed into them like a brand—
not shown, only hinted at.
Never reached.
Always just ahead.

They clawed at each other
to get closer.
Scrambling over backs,
tearing through flesh and fur
as if the ones beside them
weren’t just like them—
starving for purpose.

The ones who fell
were stepped on,
not out of cruelty,
but because pausing
meant being swallowed
by the flood behind.

The maze was tight,
and the air
smelled of iron and fear.
None of them asked
where they were going,
only how to get there faster.
As if faster meant truer.
As if arrival
would finally make them real.

I saw one stop.
A slight one.
It turned,
as if searching for a door
that wasn’t there.
The others slammed into it,
pushing it forward,
back into forgetting.

This is what I saw:
not evil,
not malice—
just need,
twisted into a race.
A race without a finish.
A promise without a shape.
A life spent chasing smoke
because someone
long ago
whispered
that there must be more.