I work late Nights stocking shelves Making sure everything is Straight. It is not much of a living, but I live. There is a boy Hardly over sixteen Bent and tired Who comes in at four in the morning To breakdown Boxes with a knife. We call him the Ripper. The Ripper and I, work where people shop, where tired skeletons Smile at each other. Where families Bloom on pennies Pinched from the dark. Where meaning is scraped from the Dirt of products With unkempt nails. Where father time Takes a fifteen to watch The light leak out of life. The Ripper and I, work in sea level crypts floating Beyond the fog of night. Without light, Without hope, Without knowing why
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