fiftyfour

He coughed up smoke and cinders and all of his dreams. The tears in his eyes, though soon gone, told his story to himself. Boys don't cry. Ever. A contaminated life in contrast, a black a white a central grey making shadow puppets on the wall. The story the tell is grand. And the paint on the glass is peeling away in the shape of fingernails and months of carelessness. And one day, he knows, this all has meaning outside of itself.