a chorus that followed me down the streets of Gutter,
scampering on fours with stolen bread betwixt my teeth.
They moved as a chorus these towns folk, to each I extended my pitied dirtied palm,
a glass of water? a bite to eat? Kind Sir…
Nay is the antiphon.
With the twilight I became spectral, moving with the shadow,
I wait for a brawl to snatch a coat, to help me brawl with the chill of snow.
At my solace sole birdcage, I gnaw at my nails, whining for a break.
At dusk I hope for a serving of death or bread this day,
anything to remove me from this bureaucratic inertia of lazzaroni,
but everyday is a crow’s mile with no end.
See link for details on this challenge >> Wordle #123 “October 3rd, 2016”