Faces etched from shadow, Eyes aglow with forgotten light, Their mouths half-open— A silent hymn to the void. The glass blurs them softly, Smudged streaks of pale skin and steel, Where reflections tremble And refuse to settle. A tree burns white in the distance, Its glow the ghost of something holy, Framed by the blackening road And the scrape of time's last breath. For now, they linger, Still as statues behind the wheel, A choir of ghouls Waiting for a note that will never come.