He drives with the weight of unfinished business, Eyes like sniper scopes locked on the horizon. Beside him, a silent deer stares through the cracked windshield, Its antlers a crown for a ghost king who refuses to speak. The cab smells of frost and diesel, A slow death crawling over yellow paint, And every mile ticks down like a countdown clock, Somewhere deep in the marrow of a doomed man’s bones. The deer won’t blink. The driver won’t stop. And the road ahead is long, Cutting through winter like a blade Sharpened on regret.