A sonnet. Down on his luck, fallen so far.
|He doesn't walk fast, he has nowhere to go.
Seeks somewhere to rest, or something to eat.
Wears clothes cold and damp, from rain and the snow.
Body is weary, so sore are his feet.
Once had a life. Ah, but now it's all past.
Wife and two children, the house and the Jag.
Could anyone blame him being downcast.
Now his height of pleasure's a half-smoked fag.
Lives a life with no meaning, purpose, hope.
Pitied or censured, it's easy to gripe.
Fallen too far down the slippery slope.
His kind far too easy to stereotype.
For most he's forgotten, just as soon as he's left.
No part of humanity, a poor thing bereft.
A sonnet with rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg.
Line Count: 14