Winter In Rittenhouse

The park is nothing but a mass grave for the plant kingdom when unravels the night. Winter's spectral feet whisper like a knave. The flowers they did not save. A cloud barrier and light. The park is a mass grave. Every bough exposed, prepared to slave many months carrying clumps of white. Winter's footsteps whisper like a knave. Mother's light diminishes like a hollow ocean wave grass letting go of green sight. The park is a mass grave. An old eucalyptus looked upon the ground and forgave the clouds who stole the sun and bound him in blight. Winter's gait whispers like a knave. Light charged with icicle breath and the sky steeped in iron, let's be brave before gravity's chants begins and the ground turns. The truth will bite. The park is a mass grave and winter's stride whispered like a knave.