We are the Wreaths of the Parking Lot
Hush.
For the sky is breaking.
Hush.
New things come.
Snow?
Not rain, oh glorious day!
Yes - the white meshing with tarnished green,
rusted frills
of our parking-lot brethren,
and now,
Our numbers are few.
Now,
Our days are many.
But now?
It’s a new day.
A new lucky pick.
A new desperation.
A new chance.
For we are the wreaths of the parking lot,
and nothing may dim our hope -
But, alas, the skies grow dim themselves.
Snows cease - revert back to that retched rain.
But now, hush.
Old things are here again.
Hush.
For the stars grow bright.
Hush.