An Empty Boulevard

I wonder still what boredom truly means, An empty boulevard in timeless sleep, Where traffic once obeyed the glowing screens And human noise ran loud, no secrets deep. Now lights still burn, yet no one waits to cross, The road recalls old whispers, sharp with dread; Lost dreams lie rusted, anger counts its loss, And echoes pace where restless feet once sped. Here stands a place between all end and start— A purgatory where all sounds are hushed; No prayer survives the wind that strips the heart, No cry escapes the silence tightly crushed. Turn back—the road remains, though you depart: Only rain’s scent, and fragments torn apart.