Next Stop, Hell
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?
