The daisies bob their heads
Just as before
The swings are rusted now,
The blue paint, flaky.
I thought the wind sounded different
When it blew through
The line of trees,
Or maybe trying its hand
At a flimsy replica
Of the contralto of raucous voices,
Confused jamborees,
Squabbles and songs becoming one.

The evenings were unchanged,
But time did
Although it never healed the ache
Of wanting to belong;
Joining in harmless games.
Soap bubbles and paper cranes
Were more attractive
Than melting candy canes.
It is strange, how the sweetness of memories
Can be different
And yet the same.

Like an invisible screen, their laughter
Seemed to belong to a different world
And I, unfazed yet hopeful
Of finding a playmate
To hold my hand
In my adventures along the winding alleys,
Crisscrossing my dreamy head,
Would be disappointed
Until I decided
That to remain locked inside me
Was the only way.

The bars of my prison
Had become too rusted to break
As the swing in my subconscious
Continues to grate.

28 September 2016


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