The snowman stood like a crooked king, Tattered flag flapping in the cold white void. Three stacked lies in a frosted top hat, A parody of freedom, Glaring through plastic goggles At the car that shouldn’t have stayed.
The Dodge was blood-red nostalgia, A weary machine left ticking under painted smog. Its tires cracked the silence, Motel whispers folded into the wind — “CHECK OUT NEVER.”
Somewhere, the neon stuttered: N-MOTEL-HOT, half a promise In a parking lot wasteland, Where time froze mid-revolt.
The air reeked of memories No one dared name — Burnt rubber, old wars, And faded American dreams Packed in snow, Buried for no one to find.
It wasn’t just the cold. It wasn’t just the car. This was the anthem of roads untraveled, Where patriots became snowmen And motels hummed the last Of broken machine hymns.
Let the flag fly ragged. Let the engine idle. No one here Is going anywhere.
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