Rats in a line,
All ordered and filed,
For miles, they stretch,
Each tail to a head,
Faces calm and well-worked,
No scuffle, noise or protest,
No words, because they know none;
Every few moments they shuffle,
Further down the dirt path,

Approaching a pit,

A pit, very wide,
The width, of course, not their concern,
The leader stops
Before the pit’s mouth, staring into blackness;

With a thought, he falls, silently,
Carelessly,
Wind rushing between his legs,
Whisking itself up against his eyes, ears, and lips,
In fantastic flight

Into uncertainty

A new leader takes hold,
This one, shaken;
He stares into the abyss,
But soon realizes the
Horrifyingly insipid Earth surrounding him

Soulless branch after branch,
Teeming with filth and despair,
Rays of sun dampened by a
Caustic fog

A nudge from his successor
Forces him out of his
Epiphanous trance,
And into the well of nothingness,
Squealing

Who falls the fastest,
The philosopher or the realist?