The snow falls heavy, like the weight of yesterday’s sins, Through a windshield smeared with memories and frost. Santa grips the wheel— A plastic hero in a world of splintered glass, His hat a crown of false cheer, fraying at the seams. The trees outside are skeletons, Reaching, clawing, Begging the sky for something it can’t give. Inside, silence hums louder than the engine, As the dog stares— A witness to the end of it all. Through the cold, There’s only forward— And forward leads nowhere.