Forgotten map, a name unworn,
A fleeting place where dreams are born,
Only to falter, thin and pale,
A shadow lost beyond the trail.
A strip of glass, of neon dust,
Where hope once flourished into rust.
The gas pumps hum, the motels sigh,
As endless highways pass them by.
The wind speaks low, a mournful tune,
Of fleeting stars and fading moons.
The people linger, tied by thread,
To ghosts of lives they might have led.
The young depart, their chances thin,
The old remain, their worlds within.
A landlocked isle, a sinking ship,
Where time forgets its iron grip.
Yet in the dark, the lights still gleam,
A flicker born of some lost dream.
The Last Call stands, a fragile throne,
Where silence drinks, and souls atone.
Hades walked its sticky floor,
His shadows etched on every door.
A king reduced, a man unwound,
The echo of this nowhere town.
And when he left, the air grew still,
As if the town had lost its will.
Yet Nowheretown, in brittle might,
Persists within the endless night.
No finish line, no final breath,
It simply waits—a quieter death.
A place for those who can’t move on,
A whisper of the world long gone.