Bearded Sword of Want

Poverty, they say, is a bastard
A bearded sword beneath his loose robe,
Walking on vexed stones like a riverbank.
His eyes reflect a helpless wrath,
Wrenching thoughts from victim-mines
A narrow chamber for breath.

He penetrates and leverages his reign,
Letting out a yelp that haunts even wealthy souls.
What good is this stranded groom
After a forceful union?
His grooming kit, a fig circle of green snakes;
Present, yet as shadowy as a shield seen only in shade.

So he walks, worn and wondering,
A riverbank sentinel mumbling his blunders
Till the whole brotherhood feels the heat:
Hear his beating heart,
Trace his piercing gaze.
He is a standard verse
Sparse in each stanza,

Each line breathing his name and might.
He expands, explores
But how true is he a bastard
When even his hair screams hunger,
A narrow-minded circumstance?