The Five Cities

The Five Cities

The city of thieves does not sleep,

Its streets coil like blackened serpents,

And the walls themselves seem to lean inward,

Listening to every footstep, every whispered name.

Every glance is measured, every promise weighed,

Knives are not always forged of steel,

Some are hidden in a smile, a handshake,

A shadow that follows too closely.

Markets hum with the barter of secrets,

Coins change hands without ever shining,

Truth is cheaper than bread,

And mercy is carried only by those too tired to take it.

Night prowls like a living thing,

Boot heels strike sparks from the cobbles,

A single cry travels far,

Yet no door opens, no hand reaches out.

Even the rooftops crouch like watchers,

Chimneys cough bitter prayers into the sky,

And the river slides past without reflection,

Ashamed of what it has carried away.

Beneath the streets, in dark cellars,

A heartbeat endures that was never cruel,

A memory of hands that once built for shelter,

A spark that refuses to die in the soot and the din.

Those who walk these streets unarmed,

Eyes lifted, pockets empty,

Carry a light no thief can claim,

And the city pauses, just for a moment,

To acknowledge that courage can move unseen,

Even where danger prowls endlessly.

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

In the slums, the children learned silence,

And women sold what the world demanded,

Hunger was measured in trembling coins,

And hope crouched in alley corners.

Doors hang crooked on splintered frames,

Laughter breaks sharp then quickly dies,

Rent is a shadow that never lifts,

Even the smallest kindness is borrowed,

And dreams are folded thin in secret pockets.

The streets are alive with quiet bargains,

The unspoken exchanges of survival,

Where every coin, every word, every glance,

Carries weight heavier than the stones beneath.

Men pass with collars raised,

Perfume masking fear and need,

Hands shake when no one sees,

Promises fall like ash at dawn,

No one speaks of who is buying,

Only of who is being bought.

And still, beneath the grime and despair,

There is courage no ledger records,

Strength that refuses to kneel,

And hearts that survive even when broken.

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

In the city of the dead, the quiet is sovereign,

Names soften under rain and moss,

Lives erased from memory’s ledger,

Yet something unextinguished lingers beneath.

Paths are lined with sinking stone,

Footsteps fade before they sound,

Flowers bow their heads too quickly,

Petals bruised by early frost,

Even the birds lower their voices,

As if the air itself is listening.

Some graves are polished bright with visits,

Candles trembling beside fresh earth,

While others lie swallowed by nettles,

Unmourned beneath the creeping green,

Photographs bleached of their faces,

Eyes erased by weather and time.

Here rests the worker without a portrait,

The mother whose hands were never thanked,

The child who left before language formed,

The stranger no headline carried,

Lives that burned without spectacle,

Now ash beneath indifferent sky.

And yet beneath the weight of soil,

There lingers something unextinguished,

Not breath, not flesh, not beating heart,

But the echo of having been,

A proof that once they stood in light,

That once they were not forgotten.

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

In the city of the rich, the lights never dim,

Glass towers glitter against the night,

Marble floors echo with measured heels,

Water runs clear in sculpted fountains,

Doors open at the touch of a code,

And nothing appears out of place.

Windows stretch from floor to sky,

Framing a view money has purchased,

Silk drapes fall without a wrinkle,

Wine breathes in crystal bowls,

Laughter rings across wide terraces,

Polished, careful, rehearsed.

Gardens are trimmed to obedient shapes,

Hedges cut back from wild ambition,

Security hums behind hidden walls,

Cameras blink with tireless eyes,

Even the air feels filtered,

Scrubbed of disorder and doubt.

Here hunger is a word in reports,

War a headline over breakfast,

Grief arrives softened by distance,

Filtered through tinted glass,

Sirens are heard but not felt,

Their echo fading before dessert.

And behind the guarded gates and codes,

Sleep does not always come easy,

Mirrors ask unwelcome questions,

Shadows linger in chandelier light,

How much is enough, they whisper,

And what was traded to have it?

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

The city that crumbled was loud once,

Its towers reached like fists at the sky,

Streets ran with ambition, not water,

And every stone bore a name carved in fire.

But walls rot from the inside first,

Bricks loosen where greed gnawed unseen,

Pipes leak sorrow into empty basements,

Windows gape like mouths that forgot to speak.

The market squares are broken,

Cobblestones turned to dust under foot,

Shutters hang from rusted hinges,

The wind carries whispers of bargaining long gone.

The rich have fled or lie behind fallen gates,

Gold scattered, melted by the heat of collapse,

And thieves, their paths undone, wander aimless,

No prey left to count, no danger left to claim.

The slums swallowed themselves in hunger,

Children vanish in the overgrown alleys,

And the city of the dead stretches wider,

Its graves unmarked, its memory fading fast.

Yet among the ruins, something stirs,

A single window holds a stubborn flame,

A voice rises where silence has gathered,

Declaring we were here, and we endure.