ice turns to air, freezing my insides with
every breath intake. the trees seemed as though
they were soldered, engraved by a goldsmith.
yet the grass is still alive without woe.

i sit isolated at a small park.
kicking the stones with many mindless swings.
cars ruin what’s to be silent as bark;
things have changed the old poets’ viewings.  

old poets like emerson who said that
nature leads to truth, but how could truth be
found in a place consumed by noise and chat.
worlds transcendentalists would hate to see.

this park may still be calming like before
but only lies are hiding in the core.