Midnight man

The midnight man,
his eyes and neck lay tucked,
His walk becomes limped echo,
A mind that strays the clump.
He pulls up as I pull in,
I too lost in becoming,
his objective is a saner sin,
he's walking where I'm running. 

The midnight man comes out for work,
while others sleep it through,
He grabs a coffee and sandwich,
though slow; he's on the move. 

I sit and write this poetry, 
as he heads to the truck,
both souls that are computing,
decisions based on luck.

I wish I knew just how to find,
Happiness that did prevail,
I seem to be lost,
in some work that keeps me jailed.

He too is finding his own way,
to carve a wooden path,
but he seems to know more than I do,
his path is carved by math.

the calculated midnight man,
he's more then you or I,
he knows that he's becoming,
and I'm still wondering why.