The motel loomed like a frozen coffin, Concrete whispers stitched across bleak skies. Two machines — old gods — Sat side by side, their metal hearts Choking on frost. A black Mustang, painted in grit, Scarred and loyal to the last mile. Beside it, a yellow shell — Sunlight embalmed in chrome. Silent snowmen stood guard, Their stick hands reaching nowhere, Grinning wide enough to split their faces. Somewhere in the static, A sign read “We’re Alive!” But the letters bled, Fading into oblivion. Engines idle; pistons dream. A dust-choked anthem Echoed through the lot, A dirge for drivers who swore They'd never turn back. Steel, rust, and salted roads, Where hope hung on tires And the roar of freedom Was buried beneath snowdrifts. This was the end of the line — Not a bang, not a whisper. Just two cars, And the ghost of summer Drowning in winter’s haze.