City of Echoes

In the city lights, where the snowflakes fall,

a story unfolds, not a tale for all.

Echoes in the alley, shadows on the wall,

a melody of memories, a season’s silent call.

The steel and the concrete, a canvas of dreams,

in the rhythm of the street, where the echo redeems.

Underneath the moonlight, where the city beams,

a symphony of rebels, breaking free from the schemes.

Raise a glass to the misfit dreamers,

lost in the rhythm of the midnight screamers.

In the silence of the winter, where the fire gleams,

we’re the poets of the night, chasing fractured dreams.

On the rooftop edge, where the cold wind bites,

a lone guitar weeps, in the pale moonlight.

Notes like whispers, in the still of night,

a symphony of rebels, breaking through the quiet.

The echoes of footsteps, in the quiet streets,

in the heart of the midnight, where the night owl greets.

Underneath the city’s pulse, where the rhythm beats,

a ballad of rebels, where the anthem repeats.

Raise a glass to the misfit dreamers,

lost in the rhythm of the midnight screamers.

In the silence of the winter, where the fire gleams,

we’re the poets of the night, chasing fractured dreams.

Through the alleyways of shadows, we roam,

in the city’s heartbeat, we’ve found our home.

In the glow of defiance, we’re not alone,

a rock ’n‘ roll symphony, a rebel’s tone.

As the snowflakes dance, in the quiet storm,

we’re the outlaws of the night, unconventional and warm.

In the heart of the city, where the misfits swarm,

a ballad for the rebels, in the cold conform.

The night is our canvas, the streets our stage,

in the pulse of the city, where the outcasts engage.

Underneath the lamplight, where the dreamers wage,

a battle for the broken, in the misfit’s cage.

Raise a glass to the misfit dreamers,

lost in the rhythm of the midnight screamers.

In the silence of the winter, where the fire gleams,

we’re the poets of the night, chasing fractured dreams.

In the echoes of the city, where the dreamers dare,

a rock ’n‘ roll ballad, a rebel’s prayer.

As the snowflakes fall, in the midnight air,

we’re the misfit troubadours, weaving tales rare.