They drift through the void like ghosts refusing the grave, Leather creaking like prayers from a forgotten church. The car—a bruised metal coffin— Hums low, its engine heavy with secrets and smoke. The driver stares past the windshield, Eyes fixed on a horizon he’ll never reach, While the shadow beside him—hat brim low— Bleeds into the glass, a figure half-there, half-memory. The light outside is jaundiced, Smearing pale yellow across their faces, A cruel trick of a sun too tired to rise. Silence hangs between them, thick as tar, Coating every mile, every turn of the wheel, While time seeps slow through the cracks in their resolve. And the road stretches on, Unwinding like a confession— Each sign they pass a lie, Each exit a promise no one intends to keep.