Iron highway horses.
They sit in the small back of this cesspool, rusted over but shimmering nonetheless. They are gravestones; watching over a zoo of light and frustration and hope and blindness.
They built a machine that fed the body but not the heart; it produced the lost. Children of a war too distant to remember, they found themselves distant from that which binds; that which sustains; that which brings life.
Rather than change, they built a mythology to their lost state. They built roads, lights, tunnels and monsters. They built cathedrals that resembled warehouses. Addicted to hope, the lights scroll past their sunken eyes while the vampires shuffle through them, collecting tips and half-finished gin and tonics.
They built iron horses by the side of the highway; faceless so that they cannot scream; faceless so that they cannot represent something outside their mythology.
They built themselves a place to go die; young and old, rich and poor. Though the highway goes through this place, all roads end here.
