Rogue

Rogue

In moon‑lit alleys where shadows conspire, A rogue wanders, heart set afire, Not bound by law nor the tidy decree, He dances on edges where wild spirits flee.

His laugh is a crack in the night’s velvet seam, A reckless promise, a half‑remembered dream, He steals quiet moments from time’s steady tread, Leaving footprints of wonder where cautions have fled.

Yet beneath the swagger, a compass unseen, Points not to chaos but to what might have been, For every rogue, though he roams far and wide, Carries a kernel of truth he cannot hide.

So raise a glass to the wanderer bold, To the stories he tells, half‑told, half‑untold, May his path be unpredictable, bright, and free— A rogue’s heart beats loud in the British night’s spree.