The Pale Hores

By Teka Smith-Bates

A rotting road is broken, a path previously plowed hidden, an unclear journey taken drowned with mystery.

Harsh heavy hanging toxins scour the skewered sky, and with each breath taken, one would breathe a bounding breath of death.

In sight no end found. Winding up wind, warranting no rest for the weary. No sight for the eye, but enclosed in an eye, inflamed trapped tornado taunts my view.

As one hears their horse, they ride. Screech with every rattle he hears, rumbling feet move rapidly upon the sounds of riddling rattlesnake.

Time of day unclear, downward events spiraling around. One's mind forgets the smells of nature, a senseless body darkens with heavy mustard gas sweeping dust on a path previously plowed. Ryder Albert’s The Pale Hores