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.