The End of the World

The horizon burns like a matchstick dipped in gasoline, A slow sunset smeared across cracked glass. The man at the wheel—half saint, half sinner— Keeps his eyes forward, hands clenched in prayer or defiance.

A Santa hat slips low over his brow, Its cheer swallowed by the weight of the road, Where tire tracks carve lines into the dust Like signatures on a pact no one ever read.

The dashboard hums in toxic greens, A glow that promises everything and nothing, While the air outside hangs still, Suffocating and holy in its quiet.

Out here, time doesn’t move—it decays, And the windshield is streaked with a story That nobody will remember but everyone lived. The car rolls on into the void, Chasing the bruised edge of twilight, Where even the sky looks like it’s trying to escape.