The Doves Are Dead

White feathers etched in neon, A frozen omen smeared across the windshield. The passenger smiles, Half there, half elsewhere, A ghost waiting for the punchline.

The driver grips the wheel like a preacher’s last prayer, Eyes ahead, but he’s seen it already— The road collapsing into darkness, Laughter splitting the silence like a crowbar.

No redemption. No mercy. Just the engine’s low hum, And doves that will never fly again.