They move through the night like misplaced gods, Chrome faces reflecting the glow of a dying city. The car hums—a metallic dirge— Its interior bathed in the golden fever of artificial saints. Their eyes, hollow yet bright, Stare forward as if they’ve seen the end of it all— The collapse of stars, the betrayal of machines, And a world spinning itself out of reason. The driver grips the wheel like a last hope, Metallic fingers welded to destiny, While his passengers sit silent— Oracles cast in gold, whispering answers no one will understand. Outside, the darkness coils around them, Thick as oil, Broken only by the smear of headlights And neon signs begging for a second chance. It’s not clear where they’re going, Or if they’ve already arrived— But the caravan rolls on, A relic of beauty, Or maybe just another funeral procession for a future that never came.