Amidst the whispers of ticking clocks, a silent rhyme,
Lists of undone tasks, a mountain to climb,
Room filled with rat skulls, and death's stare,
Where dreams decay, ceiling adorned with finish lines.

Are we just rats in this endless race,
Chasing shadows, losing our unique grace?

Sprinting through life's hazy maze,
Chasing endless goals, in a perpetual craze.
With each finish line, more hurdles amaze,
In pursuit of more, we stack lists of desires,
Yet, in this ceaseless race, what do we truly know?
Amidst the clamor, take a moment to pause,
Question the path, the purpose, the cause.
Is the race worth the scars, the emotional claws,
Or should we seek meaning beyond worldly applause?