They lined up like apostles at the end of days, Leather jackets soaked in dust and gasoline. Eyes hidden behind midnight lenses, Fingers curled around throttles like promises they won’t keep. The billboard looms, a scar on the horizon, Its red smudges bleeding warnings to those still breathing. Burned-out letters flicker for no one— An epitaph written in broken neon and rust. Engines snarl like starving wolves, Tires kick up the past with every revolution. They ride for something that doesn’t exist: A last stand, a lost cause, or maybe just the taste of speed Before the void swallows it all. From behind the windshield, it’s just another mirage. But through the glass, you can almost hear it: The hum of rebellion, the scream of the road, And the faint echo of voices saying: Don’t look back.