On the Torch of Hell
The forest fire, ripped, now rages to the looming torch of Hell, to the grieving fields clad in white that now dance to the rolling Poppies.
The pale horses, in terror, break into a heinous gallop. The cannibals advancing, a dozen barrels of mead gulped and yet the pale rider couldn’t be smitten back.
Jack Heeder is a hobbyist writer, usually infatuated with literature and music.