The highways hum like electric rivers, flowing nowhere but into themselves.

Neon crosses bleed light into the night, baptizing the lost in false salvation.

Beneath the rust of the boxcar lies the ghost of gold—both gone and waiting.

The jukebox preaches its gospel to a congregation of empty barstools.

A dollar bill folds like a map to nowhere, guiding the lost into emptier places.

The flag waves like a tired carnival banner, frayed by the wind of a million broken promises.

The gas station lights burn like desert stars, guiding wanderers to nowhere.

The strip mall stretches like a glass cathedral, where dreams are sold for a dime.

Billboards shout louder than the sky, selling silence to the deaf.

The freight train’s whistle is a hymn for the broken, singing a tune the rich can’t hear.

The river’s mouth spits oil and dead fish, a sermon on progress no one wants to hear.

The moon’s silver tongue licks the interstate, kissing the dreams of truckers and thieves.

In diners at midnight, coffee cups hold oceans of regret beneath fluorescent suns.

The desert grows fat on bones and hubris, blooming with dreams that only die.

Each motel room is a crucible of whispered prayers and cigarette ghosts.

The carnival spins like a planet gone mad, gravity flinging the hopeful into the void.

The pawnshop gleams like a holy relic, trading sins for second chances.

The preacher’s voice cracks like dry earth, his promises crumble like sandcastles in the wind.

Every pickup truck is a coffin on wheels, carrying love and anger to the edge of the earth.

The cornfields whisper secrets to the wind, their golden tongues sharper than knives.