Flames lick the edges of a city that never sleeps,
where dreams are charred, and hope smolders in the ash.
The night is a canvas of ember and smoke,
painted by hands unseen, indifferent.
In the alleys, shadows dance to the crackling tune,
while sirens wail like distant, mourning lovers.
The air, thick with the scent of despair,
chokes the whispers of those who dare to breathe.
Neon signs flicker, their gaudy promises
melting away in the heat of reality.
The boulevard, once a river of aspirations,
now a barren wasteland of forgotten footsteps.
Yet amidst the inferno, a lone figure stands,
eyes reflecting the chaos, unblinking.
A poet, perhaps, or just a fool,
scribbling verses on the back of a scorched receipt.
“Fires, fires everywhere,” he writes,
“and not a drop to douse the soul.”
The city burns, but he remains,
finding beauty in the blaze,
and solace in the ruin.