Flaming trees sway in an airless breath,
but all you see is variants of black
. The gnarly wood, that isn't there,
burns in a fiery ice.
Red and black, flows the water;
blue and silver burns the flames,
and both catch the light
of a weakened sun that isn't there.
Against a black sky
lay the icy, wispy flames that ravage,
but like the trees are dead.
The trunks bend gracelessly;
an old women without a head
bowed by the remembrance of a wind,
long gone now and nonexistent
more invisible now than it was then.
Below them, most ominous than these both,
is the river styx,
flowing with the very alive souls of the dead
that may as well never have existed.