Painted faces frozen in fractured light, A chorus of silence behind glassy masks, Red velvet coats, stiff as forgotten hymns, Conducting the night with skeletal hands. Their voices, if they could sing, Would shatter windows like brittle hymns, But instead, they drive— Eyes forward, hearts empty, The road unwinding like a cracked refrain. Dust settles on their crimson lapels, As if even time has given up, And the headlights bleed into the dark, Where shadows hum their haunted song.