The outcast disheveled,
Bedraggled and weary
Strolls into town
Dragging his feet
Through the dreary
Disdain and contempt
Perforating eyes poke
Like a razor-sharp scrutiny
Dagger
The cloak?
Is what he can still manage
To keep under wraps
Of the cut from the beggar's cloth
King of the scraps
Kind of life
That subdues him
Seclusion recluse
In hermitic exile
To be of some use
Just to loosen the noose
Of the netherworld
He extricated
Himself
From its idle inertia
Stagnation he dwelt
In a stasis field
Reeling in
Static nomadic
Ideals of adventure
And methods Socratic
He queried and pondered
How could he employ
And perhaps someday feel
But an instant of joy
Yet the place that he found
Now the same
Leaves him bound
In its living hell spell
Like a mostly ghost town