A chorus erupts in a metal cathedral, Glass rattling with the sound of primal devotion. Eight mouths wide— A scream, a song, A prayer to nothing but the void. Frost lines the windshield, A jagged border to their fury, Faces lit by the dull hum of fluorescent doom, Youthful, cracked, electric. Outside, the world spins cold and indifferent, But inside— It’s a riot, a revival, An opera staged for ghosts. No one knows the words, But they sing anyway— Until the van is empty And the echo remains.