District 00

District 00

The air hangs heavy with static ash,
and neon bleeds through broken glass.
The sky is stitched with copper wire—
no sun remains, just veils of fire.

A thousand boots on concrete hum,
past one who’s long since come undone.
He sits beside a shattered screen
that loops the lie: You’re Safe. You’re Seen.

A girl with rust along her spine
counts pills like beads. She’s number nine
of sixteen born to zealous hands.
She sleeps with wounds she can’t withstand.

The buildings breathe through groaning vents;
the air is sold in packets. Rent
is paid in sweat and silence now.
No trees. No birds. No sacred bough.

Children claw through ashen hills
for metals mined to feed strange thrills.
Their games are work; their songs are soot.
They taste the rain, but dare not look.

A window plays a feast in frame—
red meats, ripe greens, a phantom flame
of laughter piped from another place,
where no one flinches at a face.

One dared to speak, and so was stilled.
The rest looked on, their voices killed.
A system forged in want and fear
will always find more mouths to steer.

You think this place is far away;
some wrecked tomorrow, long decay?
Look again: the cracks you see
are webbing from your own TV.

That girl? She sleeps beneath the stairs.
That man? You passed him. Didn’t care.
This isn’t fiction. This is near.
It lives between your steps. Right here.

Now lift your eyes—refuse the turn,
break the hush, and let it burn.
This isn’t myth. It’s flesh. It’s bone.
And no one should still die alone.