Misfits of the Mundane

In the stillness of night, I juggle my socks,

a mismatched parade of lost hopes in flocks.

A friend’s laughter pierces, sharp as a dart,

‘Your talent’s a mess, a curious art.’

Colors collide, patterns clash in despair,

they tumble like secrets, hang limp in the air.

Inside-out stories, each one is a plea,

a testament whispered, like shadows of me.

I toss them in the dark, a lopsided toss,

a symphony of failure, of what I have lost.

Yet here in this chaos, I find some delight,

these socks are my solace in the dead of night.