The windshield smears the truth, A grotesque smile in crimson glare. He waits – frozen on this tarmac stage, Hollow eyes, a painted mask of despair. What gods abandoned him on this road? A fury wrapped in midnight frost. Red hat askew, bloodlike stripes on gray, He is the ghost of the lost. The wheel shakes with questions unanswered, A dread clings to the vinyl grip. The engine stutters, the headlights judge, But still, he waits for the ride – for the slip. And you know, somewhere in the static hum, You’ll stop again, out there, for someone.