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.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
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.
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