The sign burns crimson through an iron-gray dusk, “SIGHTSEERS” buzzing like a preacher’s trust. A promise unkept, flickering bold, Where wanderers rest but never grow old. Two cars rusting, ghosts at the wheel, Salt-bitten chrome, tires frozen in steel. Empty rooms echo a neon hum, It’s nowhere, baby, and nowhere’s home. The snow won’t bury what the past won’t hide, Cheap whiskey stains, a thousand-mile ride. Headlights pierce what’s already dead, A vacancy sold to dreams unsaid. This is it – the end of the road, A slow decay in a forgotten code. Sightseers, stop – but don’t look inside, Where the lost still drive, and the living hide.