Unmarried. Homeless,
Broke or abandoned.
Everyone finds something
To live by in the end.
Everyone finds their niche,
To operate around, at least
Some minimal needs.
And after a point, it's just
One more day of breathing.
One more night of surviving,
Before seventy years go by
Without you realizing.
Yes, death is inevitable.
But even life, the very
Act of living or surviving-
It's stubborn. One can't
Simply give up, can we?
To live somehow.
To find love, even if it's
Just a bit. If not in a mansion.
By a roadside shelter-
And if not under the
Streetlight. We manage it
Under the flicker of a lamp
Discarded by a passerby.