Burnt Bridges and Broken Hands

 The streets are cracked,

the air thick with dust and empty promises,

footsteps echoing louder than the voices they once knew.

This place, where hope went to sleep,

where dreams drown in the cold gutter.

We’ve been forgotten,

washed out,

pushed to the edge,

no safety net,

just the fall.

The clock ticks,

but no one’s counting.

Programs slashed,

jobs gone like whispers,

families left to scatter like autumn leaves,

too tired to ask why.

This system built on the backs of broken hands,

siphoning strength,

leaving us hollow.

The rich smile in their glass towers,

while we fight for scraps on the ground,

a game they never see.

The billions pile up,

but the debts we owe aren’t to the rich—they’re to the forgotten.

But deep in the rubble,

where shadows creep and silence screams,

a flicker.

A spark in the eyes of those who’ve seen the worst—

we’re still here.

The fight isn’t over,

we are the blood on the streets,

the pulse of a city that won’t die,

won’t break.

From these ashes,

we rise,

gritty and raw,

with hearts soft as rain,

and the will to rebuild.

For every bridge burnt,

a new one will rise,

made from the hands

that were never meant to be broken.