Crimson Dreams

White smoke rises
In a sundry of shapes and sizes.
Th ascent ends only as soon as it had begun;
A musty, acrid smell is all that hung.
Below the wisps of white,
Shades of red and yellow come to sight.
The flames are but fluid in nature
Marking their foreboding departure.
The crimson inferno sardonically dances about,
All we can do is lament and shout.
Our stomachs churn
As they torridly burn.
Oh! how do we save them?
Can we not live up to them?
What does this mean?
Who brought forth this fiendish blaze?
We break our journey to stop and stare at
The vermillion display that resembles our darkest nightmare.
Our dreams are on fire;
The future seems abject and dire.
They burn not with passion
For  they have been stolen and put to decimation.