Orphan of the night
Sitting alone on the riverbank, in the streetlamp’s spotlight
Wondering what he did to deserve to be here
In a past life, or this life–before he could see clear
He was just a baby when they left him on the street.
The bar smelling of bitterness and whiskey neat
Home is a concept he’s never known
Wherever he lays his head, he’s always alone
But there’s something in the darkness that touches him
Walking along the riverbank, with no one to call kin
A semse of freedom that permeates his every breath
A wanderlust within him; a place that fears not even death
He loves the people he meets out in the cold
The small joys, the sadness, the friends who have grown old
He looks in at the happy people.
They call him orphan
They laugh at what they have, and he doesn’t
No one to call kin
But the orphan sees something different.
To him, their lives are a lie
Living to fit in
Their souls never touching the sky
Never wandering the darkness along the riverbank
Never knowing the thrill of having nothing in the bank
The ever-present closeness of death’s keen call
With nothing to lose, there’s no way to fall
They can have their homes. He’ll keep his alone
Living life on the run
Born a rolling stone
About the Creator
Joelle E N
Poet & Storyteller ✨
Her heart was made of liquid sunsets 🌅 - Virginia Woolf
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