Red screams from the sign, a last-mile lie, The sky burns gold where the world will die. A mushroom cloud, silent and slow, Hangs like the truth we pretend not to know. Vacant cars, salt-bitten and still, Parked by ghosts with a lifetime to kill. Tires sinking into endless snow, No one left here with nowhere to go. The air, thick with the smell of fate, A fractured sky, too late, too late. No vacancy for the sins we’ve made, The end of a line we’ve too long delayed. Here it stands, where roads unwind, A sign lit bright for a world gone blind. No room for hope, no place for man, Just ashes, cars, and a motel’s last stand.