An inked bract
Of unmarked scrap
A piece of junk
That won’t succor
To exclude the rifts
Between hobos and peers.

A sole missive
Forged by the wind
And voluptuously engraved
By the incessant rain
A strands in macrocosm
Of an outcast rise.

Eras of ill-fated
The nemesis of restlessness
For mortal’s exemplar
A fact not an opinion
God assembled the fiends
For the attachment of his own.