Of Fires and Anarchy: Last Nights Winds Blowing Ash

Here’s some poetry dedicated to the bandana-clad saints of anarchy.

I carved my name into the spine of Portland,
let the letters bleed into the pavement,
let the streetlights flicker like they knew what was coming.
The night tastes like rust and riot smoke,
like busted lips and sirens screaming,
like a war we didn’t start
but we sure as hell won’t run from.

The flag snaps in the wind, black as the undone,
stitched together with old promises and fresh scars.
It doesn’t bow.
It doesn’t break.
It only burns—slow, deliberate—
ash twisting into constellations
for the ones who never made it home.

The pigs roll by, hands twitching on triggers,
but we are the ghosts of every riot,
the shadows between the streetlights.
They cannot cage us.
They cannot silence a song
screamed through split knuckles
and broken-glass halos.

We move as myths,
like wolves grinning through the wreckage,
like a pack of stray dogs who forgot how to heel and kneel.
We are the street prophets who dream in smoke and sound,
who baptize ourselves in the glow of burning cities,
who carve scripture into alley walls
with switchblades and spray paint,
writing revolution in blood and rust.

We are not forgotten.
We are the ones who swallowed the sun
just to feel something holy.
We are the ones who kissed the flame
and let it rip through our veins like gospel.

So let the banners rise,
let the world choke on the smoke,
let the sky crack open beneath our battle cry.
The anarchy flag is flying tonight,
and we will not go quietly into the dawn.