Onto the streets at night.

Sleep eludes me
For it too knows
That am destined to be orphaned at night.

A cacophony of his deep slumber
Lies unnoticed at the corner of the bed
Heaped as if to show its prowess
But when everything has deluded you
You no longer notice such wile ironies
That life casually assaults you with.

If the night was a book
I would be the ruffling of pages
In the tattered autumn wind
But I no longer
See such poetry.

For it doesn’t matter
Nothing does

When you await the for the night to end
So that your eyes can close
On the glory that morning shells out on you
Like the piety of giver
Onto a leper waiting to die in the streets.

Nothing matters when you realise
that your nights are cursed to be
Orphaned
Not by choice
But by existence.