Borrowed lives sulk, sprawling over lines
in coffee stains lies their demise
They live in lonely candle-light
are born in the agonies of night
After the streets have lost their sounds
they are the voices of lost crowds.
After a day’s lies, well-meant
they free truth’s pent-up discontent
Confessionals, they welcome
fearlessly each miscreant
And in a Lover’s hand they shine
with chivalry and love sublime
love which lives purely to exist.
Lives even in those who, unrequited
can but dream of it beyond the binned,
torn scraps which litter their sunrises