A boy without Purpose

In a town made of clocks, gears ticking in place, Lived a boy with no job and a tear on his face. The baker made bread, the cobbler made shoes, But all he could make were small shadows and blues.

The butcher would hum with his apron of red, While the boy dragged his feet and just stayed in his bed. The lamplighter danced with a flame on his stick�" But the boy had no spark, not a candle to pick.

He tried holding hammers, he tried mending nets, But broke every mirror and drowned in regrets. “They’ve all got their purpose,” he whispered with dread, “While I’m just a body who wishes he’s dead.”

But deep in the drainpipes beneath the town square, He whispered to rats who would nibble his hair. He told them dark stories they’d never forget, And somehow… they listened, with no known regret.

So maybe no purpose, no ladder to climb�" But he spun haunted tales that ignored space and time. And the rats called him "king" in their tunnels below, While above, the town ticked… never needing to know.