In the Land of Cumbersome

In the Land of Cumbersome

In the Land of Cumbersome a tiny boy pushed from his pallet by besotted siblings trudged through the cold near morning - reluctant sun thinly shafted as yellow smoke coaxed through the dense air by will of his upward staring still-fresh senses,  shouting silently in unsurrendered plaintive plea a wondrous "Why?" repeated -  as a map of murmur carrying him sleepily forward through the hardened fields to the cement of the city -  where he,  just another faceless stray -  eyes still burning bright entranced by a distant door yet to be found - settled on his spot and waited for the rain of infrequent coin and common censure to begin to pelt with familiar constancy the soaring power of his unearned burning expectation of Yet to Come.