Dying Light

The horizon bleeds a bruised red, A sunset caught between dreams and the end. Two figures share silence, One steering through the dust, The other shadowed, half-erased.

The glass reflects the world outside: Empty plains, forgotten towers, And the skeleton of something once built to matter.

The light fades slow and cruel, Turning everything into questions— Where did they come from? Where are they going? And does it even matter if they get there?

The rearview holds no answers. Only a smear of what’s been left behind.