The Last Noel

They ride into the void like war-torn saints, Santa hats cocked like crowns of paper fire. The car—a yellow relic of forgotten speed— Churns through the ice like a beast overdosed on gasoline.

Red jugs scatter across the roof, Their contents unknown but dangerous, While bare-chested men howl into the night, Faces lit with the kind of joy only chaos understands.

The headlights of the law flicker somewhere behind them, Distant and dim— Like rules they were never meant to follow.

Beneath the black sky, The snow looks less like purity and more like fallout, Dusting a world that stopped pretending to be innocent. And the car keeps moving— A vessel for madness, Or maybe salvation in disguise.