The car sat stitched with scars, Its stripes faded, red and white — a flag of surrender. Guardrails leaned like drunkards in the dust, Paint bleeding down in twisted candy-cane despair, Silent witnesses to a thousand wrecks, Or just one long road where time refused to move. Through a desert that forgot itself, Wind carved questions into nameless sand, And above — no sun, no salvation, Just a dim smear of yesterday’s fury. It was a wasteland built for misfits, Where the horizon turned its back, And the engine still whispered: Run, run, run. Yet there was nowhere to go, Because freedom had a price, And someone already cashed the check. A car that never stalled but couldn’t escape, A road that promised everything and gave nothing, And behind the wheel, an empty seat — The driver, Gone Or never there at all. The signs didn’t lie. It was all just a warning.