A circle of friends
Fair weather companions all
Who disappear into the mist
When arrives the Fall.

I stand in a line
Queuing for some soup and bread.
As the days pass by, each the same,
My soul fades and hope is dead.

A triangle of poverty.
A cannot afford a place to live
Without a home I cannot find work
Without work, I have nothing to give.

I sit in the town square
People shudder and avoid my shape
In cold alleyways I try to sleep
A ragged blanket across me, draped.

I collapse from hunger
Arms and legs outstretched and splayed
Inscribing a pentagon of despair
Upon which my body may be flayed.

The winter settles on me
Perfect hexagons of crystalline delight
Shrouding me in their argent beauty
And sending me into that shapeless night.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Chronos, in the year 396 AF.