Ash. Black and white. No colours showing in the hazy, bloody sunlight.
Sticks, those destitute, riven cousins of trees that once were the guardians of this landscape, rise as black monuments decrying mankind’s separation from its nature, accusing as they highlight its many flaws.
The sun stands silent watch over this necropolis of dreams.
No birds are singing, though there a lone crow lends its mournful cry in bitter-sweet harmony to my silent keening.
Strange shapes rest unquiet ‘neath the dirty grey shroud gifted by unknowing fire, fire that rushed to embrace, wiped away tears and quieted cries, then in haste abandoned to spread its chaotic peace to all who could not hide.
Strange, unsettling shapes. Shapes with faces frozen in screams nothing still living can truly comprehend, speaking to me of carefree lives torn away, unknowable thoughts erased forever.
Those laid beneath the ashen blanket at my feet I mourn but many (Oh! So very many more!) are simply gone from mortal sight.
My heart. My throat. My eyes.