A Santa hat slouches in December gloom, Eyes squint through the frozen pane. Golden bottles—loaded cannons— Fire echoes into the void, Where nothing waits but hollow silence. Hands grip like anchors, The frost a mirror, blurred and smeared. He laughs in slow motion, a phantom sound, Under skies of steel and fallout gray. The road unwinds, directionless, A brittle promise in the cold. And all that’s left is the passenger seat, Empty as midnight’s unfinished song.