Orphan of the Night

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