CHAPTER FOUR : The Last Punk Standing – The Rebel Flame
He cracked the dark with flashing light, A jagged glitch in endless night. No drift, no roar, just steps that slammed, The Rebel came, the silence damned. Half his face in crimson dyed, The other veiled in blackened pride. One eye burned wild, one hidden deep, A flame that woke the ones who sleep. His stance, a war against the void, A middle finger well-employed. He kicked the wall and carved his place, Defying time, refusing grace. The frozen faces woke to feel, They laughed, they cried, their scars made real. And through his rage, the wall could see, That to be seen is to be free. But not yet whole, the story waits, Another comes to bear the weight. A king, not loud, but standing tall, To hold the heart, to feel it all.