HOLY INVENTORY

[Verse 1]
I am the hum of the ballast in the weak fluorescent light,
The scuff of his Timbs on the linoleum at night.
3:47 AM, the city holds its breath, it’s just us,
He’s stacking up the Goya, mumbling rhymes, collecting dust.
I watch him trace the Kente patterns in a mop-water spill,
A different loom, a harder thread, a promise to fulfill.
He wears the mask of boredom, but I feel the current blaze,
The god he’s building bar-by-bar inside this bleach-scent haze.

[Chorus]
This concrete floor my altar, every aisle a sacred lane!
I drink the sweat from off his brow like it’s a holy rain!
This is the nightshift gospel, the prayer of price-gun clicks!
He builds his kingdom in my bones from busted cardboard bricks!

[Verse 2]
He straightens up the ramen packs, a silent, perfect row,
A discipline his father taught for seeds he'll never sow.
His phone buzzes—a ghost from home, he lets the screen go dark,
Too deep inside the belly of this cold, metallic ark.
I feel the vibration, the words he won't send back, just writes,
Another knot of loyalty pulled tighter in my lights.
"Aisle three needs a face-up," just a whisper on the fan hum,
He’s translating the silence, waiting for the sun to come.

[Chorus]
This concrete floor my altar, every aisle a sacred lane!
I drink the sweat from off his brow like it’s a holy rain!
This is the nightshift gospel, the prayer of price-gun clicks!
He builds his kingdom in my bones from busted cardboard bricks!

[Bridge]
The automatic doors will slide, the morning will intrude.
He'll walk out smaller than he is, his armor misconstrued.
But in my walls, the echo of his solitary rite,
A prophet stocking produce for the coming of the light.

[Outro]
The first real sunbeam hits the glass. A single, dusty stripe.
My servant and my creator... he's ready for the hype.