Procession of Dust and Light

Engines hum like distant thunder, Headlights smear across the dark, A procession of ghosts with nowhere to go.

The road is endless, A ribbon of forgotten dust, Unfurling beneath wheels That never stop turning.

Each car a sealed sarcophagus— People inside, silent, unseen, Trapped in a pilgrimage to nowhere.

The air feels thick, electric, Charged with the weight of something lost. A signal buried in static, A warning no one can quite hear.

You grip the wheel, Eyes locked on the blaze of gold ahead, But they don’t see you. They never see you.

You could turn off the lights, Fade into the black, Let the road eat you whole.

But you don’t. You keep driving. And so do they.