Road to the Promised Wasteland

The road stretches on, endless, a ribbon of dust and ruin. My truck’s tires barely cling to the cracked asphalt, as though even the earth itself is tired of this journey, tired of this wasteland. I can feel it—the weight of it all—the weight of the lives we’ve lost, the promises we’ve broken. Every mile behind us is a piece of a world I knew, one I barely remember now, like a dream that’s slipping away with the sunrise. Yet still, I drive. Still, I push forward.

Imelda hums quietly beside me, her voice carrying the weight of something far older than the ruin around us. There’s a quiet strength in her, a calm that should be impossible in a world like this. She says little, but when she does, it’s like hearing the wind whisper through forgotten trees. She speaks of something better, of a place where the land still remembers what it once was. She speaks of hope, as if hope is a thing you can still grasp in a world that’s given up on it.

Her eyes… those eyes. I could get lost in them forever, in the way they hold so much sorrow and yet still burn with something fierce. It’s like she sees through the layers of death and decay, straight into what we could be, what we should have been. She speaks of a place beyond the endless dust, beyond the wreckage of the world we destroyed. And I… I want to believe her.

But the road is long, and my heart, it’s full of scars. There’s always the voice at the back of my mind telling me we’re chasing a dream that will never come true. I’ve seen too much. I’ve done too much. The world’s been reduced to this wasteland, a place where hope is a currency you can’t afford. Yet I follow her, because if anyone can make it real, it’s Imelda.

Every turn we take, every shadow we pass, feels like a test. I know there’s danger out here—bandits, ghosts of old power, people hungry for what little’s left to steal—but there’s something about her, something that makes the darkness seem a little less overwhelming. Her quiet strength pulls me forward, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s enough to keep going.

I don’t know if the promised land she speaks of is real. I don’t know if we’ll ever find it. But when she hums, when she speaks of what could be, I can almost see it—fields untainted by poison, skies unbroken by ash. I can almost touch it, this vision of something better. It might be foolish to believe, but I’d rather be a fool with her than a man who’s given up on everything.

So we drive, and the miles stretch on, each one feeling like a prayer. And though I don’t know where this road leads, I know one thing—if we get there, it will be because of her. If we find the promised wasteland, it will be her strength, her unwavering belief in something more, that carries us through.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s all we need to get us there.

We left the compounds behind, Those rusted halls of grief
My truck, a scarred old fighter, chasing new belief
The highway roared before us, dust beneath the wheels
Imelda sang a tune of fire, breaking past the seals

Every mile a victory, every breath a vow
To find the place where broken hearts can rise somehow

Skies of steel and cinder, we raced through storm and flame
Past shadows of the Empire, past echoes of their name
Ghosts and bandits watched us, but we never slowed
Her gaze was like a lighthouse, blazing down the road
She held a dream within her, the map inside her eyes
To reach a land where broken hope can rise

On the road to the promised waste, We ride with fire and fearless haste
Through shattered lands and skies of grey
We chase the dawn, we light the way
Every mile a step reborn
Through ash and dust, the future sworn

On the road to the promised waste, we rise with light
The dark can't chase, no Empire stands, no fear remains
We drive through fire to break the chains