The lights laugh louder than the men, Neon wounds scattered across frost-bitten steel, Glinting like promises no one keeps.
Cracks in the glass hold shadows of mirth, Grins stretched too thin to mean joy, But enough to forget—at least for tonight.
Golden baubles tremble, A fragile chorus of color in the cold, While laughter drifts to the windshield’s edge, Melting into silence.
For now, they drive, Their road paved with glassy shards, Lit only by what refuses to burn out.
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