Out of Luck

I think I have run out of luck. Under the twinkle of trees and breeze, I walk alone. The moon peaks out from behind the clouds to mourn with me. Lights shut out when I pass; curtains close and strangers cross the road. The sun doesn't feel the need to stay around, and everyone I call can only answer to promise to get back to me. Things don't make sense, so now rationality seems like spite. My need is becoming desperation; I don't think a new start is near.