The city breathes in flickering tongues, asphalt veins pulsed black with rain,
while neon priests in shattered glass chanted hymns to hollow pain.
The gutters hum electric psalms, a choir of chrome and rusted chains,
each streetlamp bows its fractured head to bless the hunger that remains.
A traffic light blinks crimson tears, its warning lost on faceless cars
that whisper past like funeral trains—their headlights carve the dark to scars.
The subway exhales diesel ghosts, their voices coiled in static hiss,
while concrete saints with hollow eyes keep vigil over the abyss.
The billboards preach in stolen light, their promises now cracked and thin,
as shadows stitch their silent hymns into the pavement’s fractured skin.
And somewhere, where the sewers moan, the river drinks the midnight’s stain—
a requiem in oil and smoke, a liturgy of broken veins.
The dawn will come, but not for us— we kneel here, wired to the ache,
our pulses synced to dying stars, our bones the bricks the streets forsake.
The city’s heart still beats, they say, but all I hear’s the hollow chime—
a clockwork god with rusted hands, counting down the end of time.
