Mall

This is the place where people come to forget that they will die one day. They let their conscience build up on the linoleum floor in puddles, deep and dark And follow the crowd to the next store And the next And the next. This place will bleed you. It will tear your pockets out of your clothing And your children’s hands from yours. A new shirt. A new TV. Well done. You’ve done well. But when you leave the white walls The music tinny and dim Escalators and litter You still won’t feel free.

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