A line of cars trawls into the distance, 

penetrating barren landscapes as the murmur of routine, 

and the rumble of incentive 

tugs zombified bodies forward. 

They do not know what pushes them, 

what draws them to beat tire marks into the wear of asphalt, 

only that they will continue to chase 

the elusiveness of gold and silver, 

until weary joints and battered minds drive them into the ground. 

Until that ground is rife with tread marks,

and the only escape is rusting in the breakdown lane

next to busted syringes and powdered residue,

next to lemons so disdained 

that none stop to consider the cracked hoods, 

and fuel gauges running dangerously low. 

And should they choose to turn the keys once more, 

it is under the sign that reads: 

“Next Gas Station: 250 Miles”, 

as indifferent engines roar, 

and vehicles drag onwards.