After Hours

The park was black, the hour late,

I cut across, sealed by my fate.

The playground lights, a lonely gleam,

upon a long-forgotten dream.

The metal slides, a silver streak,

where children played, or used to speak.

A swing set chain, it seemed to sway,

though not a single breeze held sway.

Just shadows stretched, so long and thin,

where day's loud laughter used to spin.