scared awake, he laid stricken with fear:
a craven craving the rain, waiting
for a rain check on his tomorrows.
the rain brought out his sadness:
a morose man in the streets of Manhattan
life never tossed him any more roses.
an empire he fashioned in his mind:
filled with silence not proven by science
an escape from the cold empirical facts.
but he knew
that fairytales were meant
not only for children.
the chalk on his fingers also
left a layer of soot in his lungs, from
the soft clouds of attempts, erasing
the dusty image of a life too long:
unfolding.
