His face was punk rock
Pale with reds and subtle acne
orange yellow hair slightly oily
gritted teeth for the outside world
Rush and restlessness through the busy street
A look of purpose making his eyes and nose line up
like a sight on a rifle his eyes the barrel
Music and screaming filled the narrow street
He ran to the alley in quick moderate strides
That smoothly flowed into movement
He almost achieved a sneer just for show
Then with his own facial control gave up on it
He was nothing more than a piece of the city
An organic machine delivering people's parcels
He lived on the noise, movement sense of rush
Trash littered lanes his favorite race tracks
In not longer than a decade his sense of self loses relevance
His speed and frenetic pace delivering parcels meaningless
That feeling of purpose in movement dying
He says- God I know is a destroyer of identities
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