midnight. me, living among the meek.

mindlessly, I write verses,

in permanent ink, across the city.

for all to see.

wanted a passerby

to pass and ask,

what was I doing, writing.

or at least,

curse me for it.

on concrete - under a dim haze

of vintage gold

street lights hang over me

shining,

like amber

marked by the sun.

I wrote out:

“don’t you hear how it sounds

when I’m outside,

writing?

the quiet comfort of midnight,

vagrants and I,

together,

haunt the streets.

me, with poetry.

them, stuck drunk - and stumbling.”

I was at home there,

beside haunting characters,

who scared citizens,

members of the public,

who couldn’t

understand, why -

we let ourselves out at night,

surrounded by such dangers.

oh, can you not see it?

there is safety within numbers.

so, I, alone and flooded with fear.

took to the streets, stocked with

what I need:

fellow wanderers with words to spare,

terrors void of detail.

and by leaving the safety

of a 1,200 sq ft cocoon,

I can feel

the thrill

of going home

Alone.