Park Bench

I sit and I write

Dreaming of many things

Sitting on this black park bench

The wind, it blows my pages

Whispering me secrets

it wishes to be put in ink

The cold seeps through my flesh

Urging my numb fingers to write

while I sit on this cold park bench

The gray sky of Extinguished ash

fogs my mind of word and rhyme

And so I write to bide my time

Sitting on this cold park bench

The grass, short, recovers from winters wraith

but the season isn't over

Worst can still arrive

So I will wait for it on this cold park bench

I shiver yet I write

The pen it trembles, cold or scared I'm unsure

But I have momentary safety

On this cold park bench