The Hobo

I wrote this in English class today:

He was a young clericle worker, once vastly rich. Now heavily resting in the dank streets, taking in what he can and suffering through the long frosty nights. A sheen of glimmering frost appears on face, and his long black curly hair shatters at the slightest touch. His long beard dangles to the ground, and once homeless insects and mice are homeless no more. His huge hands are completely lost in the mass of blistered sinewy flesh, which haven't seen gloves in too long a time. He walks with a limp, dragging his dead foot along with him. People pass him in the streets, pitying him with baleful stares. He sobs in the night, longing for a home