Synthetic hell-fires glow, Illuminating a dank and misty canopy.
In the distance banshees wail, with a howl that chills both skin and soul.
A vulpine bark in twisted woods sounds like screams of deepest agony,
and skeletal digits, crippled, writhe - skin shed as time did take its toll.
The Styx in the sky is visible to the eye as Charon carries corpses home.
The synthetic fires don’t fizzle in drizzle as skies weep for their absent clarity.
The oceans, rabid, their skin it crawls and out their mouths a fearful foam.
Ah, nature. You sadistic mistress. You punish all with merciless parity.
The earth beneath feet gives way quick, and melts into a hellish mire.
The crawling creatures creep and cower in crannies, crevices and crags
keen to shield themselves away from Gaia’s wrath and seasonal ire.
And man too crawls and creeps depressed, to dry his donned and sodden rags.
A heart as callous and bitter as mine so basks in the good fortunes
that comes my way with the bitter onset on dark, demonic Autumns.
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