He walks in the rain, his thoughts astray,
Past shadowed faces that drift away.
A part of him was lost tonight,
The place where his world once felt right.

Steps echo soft on empty ground,
The rain a dirge, a mournful sound.
Home should cradle, a gentle release
Yet storms within will not find peace.

Three hours past the midnight bell,
He stumbled on the road, and fell.
Sweet wine had wrapped him in a haze,
Lost in the moon’s pale silver rays.

A light, a voice, a sharp command
A stranger’s torch, a stern demand:
“What brings you here at night so late?
Where is your home, what is your fate?”

He raised his gaze through weary eyes,
Beneath the dark and starlit skies.

“Sir,” he sighed, his voice half-bled,
“If I knew that, I’d be in bed.

I’d rest in peace, where dreams run free,
Not drifting here, but home, where me
Would lie in quiet, safe and sound,
On gentle shores, on solid ground.”

Still the rain falls, cold and true,
Washing the world of all he knew.