A quiet Wednesday morning, cold breath in the air, before the sun rose up, silence heavy everywhere. Empty blocks feel hollow, like a house with no chair, walls echo with nothing, just a ghost of despair. Streetlights flicker lazy, no footsteps, no sound, like the city packed its bags and left without a round. Even the breeze drifts lonely, got no place to stay, boring as an empty stage with no crowd to play. But I keep my hoodie zipped, waiting on the spark, ’cause even dead mornings hold a flame in the dark. Abandoned don’t mean finished, it’s a pause in the beat, the rhythm comes back when life returns to the street.