In the heart of the Village Mall, Where neon lights flicker and fall, our skeet safari plays in the night, Under the glow of fluorescent light.

Welfare bums with dreams untold, Wanna-be rappers, chains of gold, Fake bling shines in the dimmest light, Ball caps worn sideways, claiming might.

Nans boy, with a gaze so weak, Asking for spare change or a cigarette to speak, His broken dreams on a crumpled page, Wandering life’s desolate stage.

Break and enters, shadows creep, Petty crimes in the hours they keep, Absent fathers, a gaping hole, In the fabric of these fractured souls.

His Majesty Penitentiary calls, Echoes through cold, iron walls, Life of crime, a shattered grace, In the reflection of a jaded face.

A cycle spun, a wheel unkind, Lost in the maze of a troubled mind, In the heart of the Village Mall's embrace, A story etched, time cannot erase.

-M. S Chandler