The Antler Kings

Cold air hums through shattered vents, Breath fogging glass like ghosted hymns. Their crowns glow gold, a flickering omen, Against a sky that never wakes.

Eyes fixed forward, they see nothing, The road a smudge of white and shadow. Hands on the wheel, as if to steer, But the world spins quietly on its own.

Snow falls soft, settling in silence, A blanket for the kings without a throne. Their journey endless, their laughter lost— Only antlers remain, glowing in the gloom.