The footsteps walking down the hall,
It seems so long for him to be
Standing menacingly over me.
His downward gaze
His eyes ablaze,
Be this the final sight I see?
His foot now plunged into my side,
I cannot move; it hurts to cry.
His griping hands
My pulsing glands
Hope of tomorrow be denied
Out of here and in the truck
I'm quickly running out of luck.
The bumpy ride,
It's hot inside,
Just because I couldn't make a buck.
Who knows what will become of me
But the "business" cannot run for free.
A faster pace
To take my place.
Race me till I die for thee.
Just another mark upon the list
Of Greys who've given their lives for this.
Replaced with haste
It seems a waste,
My life for your ephemeral bliss.
Lynn Kargol August 23, 2001
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