a boy sat in the middle of the street
almost lifeless, until a quick, shivering breath was visible in the cool, winter air
hair, curled where his head was placed the last time he slept
eyes, red as if the blood flowing through his face drowned the pupils
hands, calloused and bruised, blue tints a memory of nights with the whip at the stable
tomorrow-
a boy sat in the middle of the street
newspaper in hand, never turning the page
bottle of water, unopened and untouched
pair of glasses sat next to him wondering where to go
face blue from the cold
friday-
a boy sat in the middle of the street
shattered pieces of glass surround his body forming a large circle
a single rose held in his hand, as each petal torn off slowly
the trail of torn petals on the snow covered ground burned to a crisp
deranged antlers lying beside him, a prop in the clean floor of the cold season
yesterday-
a boy sat in the middle of the street
body collapsed onto the bare road
a whimper forced out of his weak lungs
only after getting up is there the sight of the dead deer
single drop of blood shown, on the tip of his finger
last year-
a boy died in the middle of the street
-Jeffrey Yang
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