Funhouse

The man stumbles, falls on tattered knees and grazed flesh. Enveloped by choking dust he coughs in spasms of despair. His hand clasps, unclasps pulsing on the luggage handle. The road ahead too long his strength as dust. And yet the hope remains alive a glimmer in the dark. A future beckons of acceptance between those of his kind. He will go on toward his dream he must forbear. He cannot stop if he is to be a man, almost eleven. Comment: Ok, some of you have been heckling me about my block on 14 lines. This is my first try in a long time to go over that mark. As it is I don't expect much in the way of reviews but I enjoyed trying at least. Please tell me what you think about it. Any comments are welcome. The content is based on a picture I have in my head on the naivete of youth. But also maybe a bit of innocence in a complicated world.