There’s a culdesac waiting where the past still lingers

There’s a cul-de-sac waiting, where the past still lingers,

each house holds a whisper, a tale on its fingers.

The old oak tree stands, its branches now wild,

once a small sapling that sheltered a child.

The faded swing creaks in the afternoon air,

where we carved out our dreams without worry or care.

I pass by the houses, each paint chipped and worn,

time turns the bright colors into something forlorn.