We are the last children.
Of ostracized individualism.
The dark creepy kids of the witching hour.
Drab dismal black.
Clad in ghosts.

Left aside.
Losers.
Rejects.

Caste out dalits.
Who could never fit into.
Whatever normal is.
Unless we are confined in your consternation.
The someone's who refuse your society.
A jail of good intentions.
And pride.

Unlike you.
We live in twilight.
Sleep at dawn while waking up right before dusk.
To watch the sun set on our dismal days.
Never to rise in us again in day time.

We are.
Delighting in darkness.
Dancing in shade with the oscillating shadows.
Of what's going bump in the dark.
When all of you are asleep.

Maybe we aren't pretty.
Maybe we are a melancholic menagerie of misfits and malcontents.

But how dare you call us vain.
We don't want your attention.
When like insects we scurry away from the illumination of your light.

We'd prefer to be left alone.
Ignominiously ignored infamous itinerant.
Mendicants of Midnight.
To own our own lives.
Ran on our own circadian rhythm.

But you.
Have dragged us into the sun.
Demanded we obey.
Conform to your cancerous cacophony of fragile ideas, tiny egos, and your desire to destroy.

So why then.

Are you shocked that we hurt ourselves.
Hurt you with our existence.
And lash out in desperation for the dying of the light.

Life was better when you left us alone.
And I will certainly shut out the rising sun.
With a cascade of blasphemy.
Pouring out of the sword of my mouth.