In the alleys where silence festers,
in the corners where light does not reach,
the repressed, the scorned, the uncounted ones
gather with voices hoarse from exile.

They know the cruel geometry of power,
how some are pressed beneath the weight
of doors never opened, of ears never bent.
And so they bend their prayers
toward the figures who laugh in ruin,
who promise no justice, only fire,
and the sweet, terrible taste of recognition.

Chaos listens where we have not.
The misunderstood find their mirror
in its broken glass,
and the reviled taste welcome
in the mouths of the monstrous.

Yet what grows there is not freedom,
but teeth sharpened on despair,
and the world itself reels
when such altars blaze unchecked.

If we, who dwell in higher halls,
would loosen our grip on gates and thrones,
if we would widen the table,
extend the bread, the breath, the belonging,
then the weary would not need
to drink from poisoned chalices.

Inclusion is not charity but safeguard,
a weaving of bonds against the storm.
For every soul given dignity
is one less voice in the chorus of shadows,
and every hand welcomed into the circle
is one less fist raised to ash the earth.