The Park.

Motionless.

Vast, desolate, and yet, suffocating.

Winters true face, horrid.

Townsfolk abscond to brighter scenes,
fires, feasts and spirits.

In one moment, a wild rage
every exhaled breath from the North
blows a frozen hell upon the scene,
in the next,
an indignant sigh, released over the land –

A reaction to my discontent.

One that hangs for days and blacks the sun
rolling carpets of white
lamenting the stillborn
tears to ice and fall.

Life is in abeyance.

Tongue of the season names me stranger.

Spiteful, implacable wrath.
Skies to crows and devils.
Streets to death and silence.

 

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