BY CONNOR MCPHERSON

He calls,
Hot and wet
His voice stings
Like a thousand needles in my ear.

I drive,

Chauffeuring the damned

To a fiery abyss.

Speeding through walls of flames,

His blue eyes pierce through

My every move.

Iridescent shades of red

Luminate the back row of worn seats,

Reflecting frightened faces in my rearview.

Do they know they’re dead?

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