Unholy
Poetry
In the shadows of a city
that never sleeps,
where neon lights flicker
like restless ghosts,
I wander through the unholy.
Cracked pavements
echo with forgotten footsteps,
whispers of broken promises
and dreams that turned to dust.
The air is thick with secrets,
stories hidden in alleyways,
lives lived on the edge
of chaos and clarity.
In the heartbeat of the night,
I find solace
in the raw and the real,
in the places where light
barely touches,
where souls are laid bare
and masks are torn away.
Here, truth is a currency,
bought and sold in glances,
in the hush of a shared cigarette,
in the silence after a scream.
I am unholy,
not in sin,
but in the purity
of my brokenness,
in the honesty of my scars,
in the rebellion of my existence.
In this city of angels with dirty faces,
I am one among many,
seeking redemption not in heaven,
but in the tender touch
of another lost soul,
in the fleeting moments
when our darkness
becomes a sanctuary.
We are the unholy,
the ones who dance
on the edge of oblivion,
who find beauty in the ruins,
who make poetry
out of our pain,
and in our shattered hearts,
we are whole.
