His pedigree was not yet in doubt

As he strode, his clothes had not quite fit him,
The colours did not yet match.
As he strolled along, imprisoned in a style a few years out, a few years past.
As yet, he stood quite tall, as though he were confident, still, as yet.

As he moved, his feet tentatively tested the ground,
He seemed to notice everything and nothing...
He never spoke, as he seemed to glide, or perilously slide, upon the ground.

As he strode, his clothes did not quite fit him,
Sometimes, he even, in his abject loneliness, he caressed an old book,
As he stared into the depths of the broken nights.
As he strode, his clothes were slightly not in fashion,
And he'd missed quite a bit, when he'd attempted to shave, it would seem.

As he strode, his clothes did not quite fit him,
But when he spoke, his pedigree was not in the least, in doubt,
It was not how he spoke, but of what, and the words he somehow perfectly chose.

The world, he saw, with different focus,
The ground, from which the deathly angels rose.

His clothes, did not quite fit him,
They certainly did not fit his voice.
But his broken mind, saw angels rising from the floor.
But his broken mind, saw angels rising from the floor.