Look at the echoes that float in your eyes, like ever-distant smoke from the young man's cigar. Burnt black, from thoughts of shadows. Speak to me, the ancient date, the date on the rose wood calendar. That ancient date that rules your life. Life is an every lasting light, smudged from the young child's hands. He is not yet ready, to be a man. Left inside, to play in his mind, mom left, at the edge of town.
