It wasn’t always like this—

city streets humming with decay,

where hope once simmered—

now, a heavy silence sprawls,

clinging to corners,

the residue of a dream deferred.

Aluminum foil glints under the neon haze,

not a spark of hope, but a glimmer of despair,

minds lost in the endless chase for numbness,

caught in a loop with no end in sight.

I walk these streets, each step heavier than the last,

the weight of what’s been lost pressing down.

These paths, once lined with promise,

now shadowed by the aftermath of choices,

haunted by echoes of well-meant decisions,

gone awry under the weight of time.

The air is thick, filled with the ghosts of laughter,

now replaced by the low hum of survival,

as crime rises like a tide,

pulling us under,

while the city struggles to keep afloat.

Faces blur into the dark,

stories swallowed by the night,

and we’re left with the remnants,

of what was, of what might have been,

in a city that’s forgotten its name,

trying to piece together the fragments

of a past that feels like a distant dream.

But somewhere in the distance,

faint yet persistent,

a heartbeat remains,

the city refusing to be defined

by its scars alone.

We hold our breath, waiting,

for the rain to cleanse the streets,

for the earth to exhale,

and for the promise of renewal

to finally take root,

in the hearts of those who remain,

in the cracks of a city, still searching for its soul.