Descend in a bed of white pale as snow,
A gleaming path sprinting far and low,
A borough buried bleakly as day turns to night.
When the winds run frigid, comes Winter’s reign of might.
Debris peeking out, buildings caving in,
An odd man’s trails and bones - Death is akin.
A land of deathly heaven, now desolate,
Where travelers discover their horrid fate too late.
An uncharted beauty - a mirage - a vision of Van Gogh ...
Descend into the wintry world as hushed as snow.