He runs not for banners, nor truth in the skies
But the fire in his chest and the burn in his thighs
Smoke clings to the night like a long held breath
The rhythm of riot, the dance of death.
No colors, no cause, just the call of the drum
As the beast in his blood begins to come
Faces blur into snarls, flags into flame
He’s chasing no justice, he’s chasing no name.
The crowd splits open, a wound on the street
And he dives in headfirst, wild and complete
Not man, not boy, but a howl in flesh
A hunger unspoken, raw and fresh.
In the blur of glass and the swing of fists
He finds himself where reason twists
No right, no wrong, just the savage stage
A young god born on the streets of rage.
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Author:
Tommy Dingo (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 25th, 2025 16:28
- Comment from author about the poem: Fiction
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 35
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments3
Puir boy. Gorgeously rendered with a delicious rhythm, excellent imagery and a winsome poignancy. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reading and your comments! So very much appreciated
Thanks TD
My pleasure, you're welcome!
A well written poem about a tough place to grow up. Nice rhyme and good flow. Well done
Thank you Soren so very much appreciated
Thanks TD
A wonderful write, author says fiction but I think it is relatable to many growing up on one side of the track, nicely written and expressed
Thank you so much very humbled by your praise!
Thanks again TD
You are very welcome
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