The blast blooms like a poisoned flower, Orange and violent, splitting the skyline apart.
Through the cracked windshield, the road runs empty, A bridge to nowhere built on borrowed time. The driver stares forward, locked in a trance, Eyes fixed on the rising mushroom of doom— As if waiting for the end to give him an answer.
Smoke slithers across the horizon, Curling like ghost fingers dragging the world into ash.
The dashboard flickers green, faint and indifferent, While the car hums low— A machine in denial of what’s coming.
There’s no panic in the air, only silence— The kind that falls Right before everything collapses.
