The story was written
packaged and sold
decades ago on the etched old
face of a skin deep legacy.

The hierarchy of the poor
split the four square blocks in
two mirror opposite ends of
the spectrum and the outed
street lights hid in plain
sight the similarities of the soul
brothers in arms.

Two little boys picked up their toys
and habits that littered the blighted street.
Bypassed their books
and ventured outside to the
pre-dawn battle lines with dreams
-less expectations of being forever
forgotten,
lost,
hopeless,
and young.

I would have done something
but their stories were decades old, already told;
The boys, already dead.