Fog drenched feet
As he steps, one, then two, now three. The fog moves round him just like in the 50's. A movie setting so serene, yet this is life no joke is told. The fag he holds burn hot and slow, illuninating his presence in the cold. It marks his path for all to see, it marks his soul poor drenched with hurt. He'll smoke it down, until it is dead, smoldering butt in hand. Then his hand rests by his side and slowly it drops to the fog soggy cold.