beyond the asphalt lay a
plantation
filled with a
myriad of decrepit
trees and grass and cattails and rocks and
a moss ridden stream soon to be
overpowered by ice.
the towering
grass
almost resembled a trench, as if
the bone chilling and those with bones
were at a stalemate in a
perpetual war.
a remorseless wind that bit through flesh
shying behind layer after
layer of
worn clothing,
subjecting the skin to
the sorrow of the unrelenting corpse
coloured ash.
malnourished, cracked
tectonic plates
unmoving, yielding still and
even stiller, the sun's absence
unforgiving.
there is nothing
beautiful
about combating gelid with
inferno.
