deepundergroundpoetry.com
cathecisms of the streetlight choir
Breathe deep, apostate.
The night is gospel.
We raise our voices in alleys
where halos flicker in sodium glow
and faith is forged in footfalls.
No pews. No pulpit.
Just pavement and panic.
We kneel only to tie laces tighter—
ready to run,
ready to rise.
Our verses are chants in riot cadence.
We speak in spray paint
and whisper revolutions
through torn masks and stolen megaphones.
Beneath every flickering bulb,
a prophet waits
with boots caked in dust and defiance,
ready to sing truth off-key
and loud as hell.
Confession is a brick through silence.
Salvation is sweat.
And the only holy relic
is a raised fist backlit
by blue and red sirens
spinning like stained glass.
There is no choir robe.
Only hoodies.
Only hunger.
Only a chorus of ghosts
learning to scream
in harmony.
The night is gospel.
We raise our voices in alleys
where halos flicker in sodium glow
and faith is forged in footfalls.
No pews. No pulpit.
Just pavement and panic.
We kneel only to tie laces tighter—
ready to run,
ready to rise.
Our verses are chants in riot cadence.
We speak in spray paint
and whisper revolutions
through torn masks and stolen megaphones.
Beneath every flickering bulb,
a prophet waits
with boots caked in dust and defiance,
ready to sing truth off-key
and loud as hell.
Confession is a brick through silence.
Salvation is sweat.
And the only holy relic
is a raised fist backlit
by blue and red sirens
spinning like stained glass.
There is no choir robe.
Only hoodies.
Only hunger.
Only a chorus of ghosts
learning to scream
in harmony.
Published 18th Apr 2025
Author's Note
from a series titled "Commandments in Anarchy"
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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