The glass is fogged and filthy, Roadkill sunsets smear across the windshield. He leans out, A crown of crude horns bent to the wind, Eyes masked but staring straight through you, A grin stretched thin and mean. He doesn’t need to speak— The car’s hum says it all, A restless heartbeat roaring through the frostbitten miles, Headlights carving trenches into the gloom. Who let him in? You can’t recall. But he’s here now, A quiet god of nowhere, Riding shotgun in a stolen throne. And as the neon antlers flicker, You wonder— Is he leading you? Or is he waiting For you to pull over?