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.
