Streets Of Rage

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.