the witching hour tolls
as the fools shuffles
aimlessly down the street

the stars seem to blink
in and out with the music
that fills his empty skull

the typical broken sleep
pulverized by the nothing
inherent in transitional woe

it’s cold, far colder than it should be, a pervasive chill that blossoms from the winter roses taking root through the vascular emptiness, still one foot in front of the other down the road that goes on into the infinite oblivion of oblivious destitution that keeps hunger more necessary than slumber