Atomic Motel
The sky burns with the glow of something final, A golden cloud sprawled across the horizon, Quiet but deafening—like the aftershock of bad decisions.
The neon sign flickers: MOTEL PARKED, Letters half-lit, like they gave up mid-sentence. Rows of tired cars sit silent in the snow, Witnesses to the end of the road, or the world, Whichever came first.
Beneath the ember sky, The landscape stands still, A postcard from nowhere sent too late. And the glow spreads— Holy, hypnotic, unstoppable.
