A Santa suit soaked in gasoline dreams, Propped against steel, cold and gleaming. The Mustang — a tomb on wheels, Idling in the frostbitten dark, Whispering like a death rattle through chrome teeth. Beneath neon bruises, the city hissed, A fractured hymn for midnight drifters. Fluorescent halos hummed above parking lots, While snowmen grinned, Their coal eyes empty as forgotten gods. The engine coughed smoke into silence, As the red phantom lingered, watching— Somewhere between redemption and relapse, A broken star hung low, Fading to black. And on this cold road of static despair, The question remains— Did he lose the map, Or was there never a destination?