The train rattles past midnight slogans,
each one a warning written in neon dust.
Letters drip like fresh constellations
on the ribs of silver cars—
WE WERE HERE, NOT YOUR CITY,
EVERY WALL HAS A PULSE.
Beneath the murmuring advertisements of tomorrow,
a sharper gospel flickers in unauthorized color.
The tunnels memorize it.
The rats translate it into twitching scripture.
Even the conductors read it with their eyes closed.
A crown made of spray caps rolls along the tracks.
A halo of sirens hums in the distance,
late as always, faithful as gravity.
Someone has stitched a future into brick and speed,
a prophecy that refuses to wait for permission.
We pretend not to see it,
eyes trapped in glowing rectangles of curated hope,
while the walls scream in wild typography:
THE CITY IS A DREAM EATING ITS DREAMERS.
BREAK THE SPELL.
By morning the messages will be skinned raw by cleanup crews,
bleached into respectable silence.
But the night will remember.
The tunnels will rehearse.
And the next train will arrive already whispering
what the daylight is afraid to admit.