The Painted Strays

They stand in the cold haze, Two faces smeared in red and blue, Like broken toys left behind on a forest floor. The air is thick with silence— That cruel, waiting kind.

One stares straight ahead, Eyes wide, mouth locked in a grin That doesn’t belong to him. The other leans closer, A phone pressed to his ear, As if the world on the other end Still made sense.

The snow falls, Heavy and relentless, Washing the color from the road, From their faces, From everything but the lingering dread.

And you? You keep your hands on the wheel, Your foot hovering, Wondering— Is it better to stop, Or better to keep driving And pretend You didn’t see them at all?