Dark, decaying and desolate. A park of vicissitudes, where you wait to leave.
A place of congregation, Where pleasure teases your fancy, But always leaves you wanting, waiting. The joy of leaving, when your wreath of friends arrives. Never in the act of going, or being within the place.
The centre of the city. Yet the furthest place from joy you could ever be. Where single parents attempt to claw back the joy in their children's lives. Such a fragile germ, The smallest graze or bump will end the nurtured joy.
It was always irksome, Seeing parent's attempt to fertilize that day with delighted, With a day at the part. The dry, bleak, empty place. With trees like shoots going as high as they can. To get away from the place of their roots. Leaving their dead, and tired branches behind, as it attempts to outgrow its self.
The pessimism of youth, The anguish of teen. Always not wanting to be seen. The hard brown casing, locking away the beauty inside. To open up, and spread its petals, To germinate forth and spread its seed, Reawakening the beauty inside, and so as well is happening outside.
Blissful budding beauty. The joy of discovery. What's behind; The next tree? The next bend? The next crest? The open planned wounder of the park.
People gather on the sidelines, As if waiting for a party, For the bouquet of friends to arrive.
The centre of the city, and the hub of life. Where birds will meet, Bees will be soon, And flowers await the noon.
A place for the children to be free, Separate from the casing of their city residence, Blooming out onto the park. The seemingly endless stretch of grass in the vast space.
The wonder of what is to be? Holding the secrets of their identity, What joyous clours are displayed inside?