Billboards

The world has an edge and is flat
ending where the concrete stops,
for the mental urbanized utopian eulogies
muttered of over the death of civilized crowns
when glancing at wilderness detour sign
that greed’s graffiti hadn’t defiled.

It is the landscape unexplored
where the heart ceased beating
to mindless sounds of metropolis music,
being trapped in crumbling thought citadels,
pretending the boundaries of asphalt titles
truly controls a person’s qualities.

In the false freedom bathed in neon candles
those billboards built in the head
float as phantoms of places forbidden
where the fireflies of skyline stars
glow as reminder of what you never tried to chase,
feeling that twinkle you didn’t capture
burn its haunting in your brain.

Sitting where the wind is always refrigerated
makes it so easy to forget the sky
or the times you didn’t worry about limitations
set by those who ruled your hopes.

At night the eyes can’t stop seeing those horizons
flickering the questions you never asked,
about if this tent made of steel and glass
was really the paradise believed.

Cruising down a highway
that stretches from inside
to a future never visited,
continuing to tell yourself
it is just a mirage
so you don’t have to truly regret
trying to escape where you stopped
thinking life was more than a structured reality.