The man grips the wheel like it’s a trigger, Knuckles cracked, veins dancing to the rhythm of combustion. His cigar chews the air, spitting smoke and bravado, A live wire in the ruins of another afternoon.
The windshield smears the world into a canvas of chaos— Snow, grease, and streaks of forgotten storms. Tattooed arms flex like unfinished scripture, Stories written in ink and blood That nobody remembers, And nobody dares to forget.
He laughs, mouth wide and unrepentant, The sound ricocheting through the empty cab, An anthem for the damned. Outside, the horizon shivers, Unsure if it’s dawn or the last red sigh of dusk.
The engine snarls like a junkyard dog, And the road—frozen, endless— Waits for no one but him. Because when you’re this far gone, Every mile is just another bullet In a gun you stopped trying to unload.
