The taxi hums like a tired beast, Its yellow skin bruised with streaks of winter’s claw. Behind the wheel, a ghost sits, Eyes hollow under a mask of gilded shadows— A carnival relic in a city that forgot to celebrate. Neon antlers pierce the night sky, Flickering like a bad memory, While the streetlights blink disapproval On roads that have nowhere left to lead. Snow spills across the windshield, A slow-motion avalanche swallowing truth and direction. The driver stares ahead, somewhere past the glass, Where the dark holds its breath And nothing ever comes back. The car idles on borrowed time, Exhaust weaving secrets into the frozen air. And in the quiet hum of the engine, You can hear it: A prayer to keep moving, Or the whisper of surrender.