There was nothing clean or
familiar about him; he had
travelled places, that's all:
strangely compelled to enter
the unknown, repeatedly.
And there had been mad
people, blind beggars, pretty
whores and those fringe
dwellers everyone abhors.
Every collision changed him
quite substantially.
So he was a dented, some
would say a quite demented
man; a broken tangled
dusty dirty man; a murmuring
turmoil at the city gates
looking to loosen everyone
he met with his salacious spirit.
And he came right up
and stood outside the walls,
whose brick and mortar rhetoric
seemed to him quite wrong,
and, even worse, those
tight knit pilgrim songs
that never raised a blister.
He shook his sandles then
quickly turned, surrendered
to the immense and foreign
world, swallowed down
the long road, murmuring.
