They sit shoulder to shoulder, helmets cracked like old promises, Eyes peering through bars that keep the world out And the madness in. The driver grips the wheel like a linebacker’s collarbone, Knuckles white, face locked in a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. His passenger breathes heavy through broken teeth, A voice hoarse from years of shouting into the void— A war cry no one answers. The windshield fogs with the heat of old battles, Hands twitching for a ball that isn’t there. The headlights pierce the dark like accusations, Carving through snow and smoke, Searching for a goal line that’s been moved, Or maybe never existed. Outside, the night stretches endless and uncaring, A field of shadows too slick for traction, Too cold for redemption. But they barrel forward anyway, Two gladiators in a rusted chariot, Chasing the whistle that never blew.