The sign glows like a broken promise, Its letters bleeding out into the night— LOST ARENA, half-dead and humming, A roadside altar to nowhere. Inside the car, shadows swallow the driver whole, A silhouette with eyes like cigarette embers. His face unreadable, his hands steady, Like a man who’s seen the end of the road And kept driving anyway. The windows are smeared with time— Oil-slick memories and rainwater regrets. A faded blue sky leaks in, Cracked and peeling like an old film reel. “Keep going,” the silence seems to whisper, As if the answer’s buried just past the next mile marker. But nobody wins at the arena— It’s just a long drive toward something you forgot, Lit by gas station ghosts And neon lies too bright to ignore.