Alive in this grey toned wetland that hasn't seen a surcease of angry rainfalls in what feels like days now.
Naked trees baring needle like fangs that are its branches in a continuous prayer to the skies, its spindly arms held up, beseeching green tendons of muscular shiny leaves, pleading for sunny spring touch which will be denied, for how long the trees ask.
Their ribs protruding into shards of darkening barks, boles tightening to a frigid wooden insipid life.
Asphalt that's turned into grey mirrors, reflecting all they see, scattering lights of every source which flee into obscure corners of crepuscular mornings washed over by splashes of lilting waves jutting out of puddles, puny pools.
Gelid, dewy with a hint of moss in every breath. Cold humidity which finds its way through clothes to seep into bones. In murky lights, dinghy ambience, skin with a patina tint of grimy mood and sickening gloom.
An icy stickiness with the ability to gum will to weary roots.
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