Desert dusk, a sickly glow— Monstrous rigs in solemn row. Engines cough a hollow tune, The road, a scar beneath the moon.
Through the windshield, cracked and cold, A journey framed in rust and gold. Fingers twitch upon the wheel, Fumes of dust, and nerves of steel.
The convoy moves like spectres pale, Across a land where stories fail. No saints, no sinners—just the ride, Machines that churn, and men who hide.
Eyes fixed straight, as gears they grind, The endless search for peace of mind. But peace is dead, it’s clear as sand— Just smoke and lights on borrowed land.
