The desert stretches forever, pale and mute, Where cacti stand like sentinels—silent and judgmental. The man in red spins the glass orb in his hand, A snowstorm trapped inside, Swirling as if it knows something he doesn’t. The rearview mirror hangs crooked, Reflecting nothing but dust and dead roads, While sunlight slinks through the cracks, Soft, indifferent, too clean for what’s happening here. His face is painted in hues of resignation, Jaw slack, eyes caught somewhere Between a question and a plea— Where the line between fever dream and last chance Grows razor thin. The car feels heavier than the silence it carries, An engine of exile with no destination. Outside, the cacti mock him— The kind of stillness that tells you to run. But he doesn’t. Instead, he clutches the snow globe tighter, Watches the flakes fall like lost time, And wonders if maybe the world Always looked better behind glass.