It's eleven on a Friday night
And I'm walking the streets again.
I feel no comfort, feel no fright,
I'm not sure where I'm going or been.

The world should be asleep by now,
Tucked snugly in to its bed.
Against my thoughts I'm wrong somehow,
It's artificial day instead.

The wolves are out and on the hunt,
The lambs are sitting still as stone.
And out here on the battlefront
I've never been more alone.

Beneath the pale moon's murky haze
There's an abundance of sound.
In the far distance music plays
And voices are heard all around.

Car horns honk and tires screech
As they go rushing passed me.
Teenagers chat with obscene speech,
Insisting their speech is free.

Midnight merriment is sought after
'Til the nightingale has flown.
Surrounded by life and laughter
I've never been more alone.

Jimmie Arrington

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/367-midnight-merriment/