Lines of Ghosts

At the park, faded chalk marks trace where we played,

days spun into memories, like sunlight, now frayed.

Each line like a boundary, a call to the game,

reminders of summers that flicker, now tame.

The smell of fresh grass, a crispness in air,

whispers of laughter float high without care.

With each step I take, in the echoes I find,

a map of the dreams that once danced in my mind.

Yet here, in the fading, those dreams still remain,

lines of our childhood, in chalk and in pain.