Arms raised to fractured skies, A figure lit in neon confessions. Beneath the hum of tired jukebox songs, The diner bleeds life through stained glass windows, A cathedral of the forgotten, Where Jack Frost preaches gospel to ghosts. The car waits – engine cold, A prophet with nowhere left to go, As frostbite fingers claw the dusk, And streetlights blink, Like dying stars in a hollow heaven.