by Isaac Timm
Bolm is burning, walls tumbling onto the great southern plain;
fields of golden grass melting.
The Emerald Palace cracks and then falls, shattering,
into a million perfect pitches.
Glaciers melt atop the White Star Mountains,
boiling earth buries the merchant town of Voil.
In Arkonians’ dry expanse, horses catch fire:
burning; screaming palomino torches.
Deep in the forest of the east the last monk prays,
as his nature god explodes into cinders
Neither iron clad warrior nor immortal mage can defend
their dying world from fire.
Bolm is burning in a rust iron barrel, because father
says “Dungeons and Dragons” is a sin.
How many of Bolm’s people know their God,
is a boy with few friends.