Groups Of One

The city bleeds in neon scars,
shattered glass and burnt out cars.
Graffiti screams on broken stone,
a warning carved, but left unknown.

They march with fire, fists held tight,
a cause, a chant, a staged street fight.
Justice blurred by shattered panes,
smoke and sirens, mud and stains.

Out past the alleys, past the screams,
the world splits wide in warring teams.
Borders drawn in blood and sand,
leaders lie with shaking hands.

But I don’t march, I don’t belong,
no banner in my sight, no battle song.
I walk alone, my steps are light,
a shadow slipping through the night.

Locked and loaded, no place to hide,
a pack, a plan, the will to survive.
No brothers sworn, no trust misplaced,
no cause to chase, no risk embraced.

For in the dark where men collide,
where rage and ruin swell the tide,
safety’s not in cries or guns—
it’s only found in groups of one.