Swings creak slow swinging ghosts

Swings creak slow, swinging ghosts

against a backdrop of quiet streetlamp glare.

The slide waits, a cold silver spine

cutting the darkness thin and sharp.

No laughter, only the wind’s fingers

rattling chain links like brittle bones.

Long shadows stretch—empty echoes

where small feet once stamped their will.

The rubber mat cracked, a tired heart

beating soft beneath forgotten feet.

I stand silent, listening to the space

between the lost sounds of childhood,

where the night holds its breath

and everything waits for morning.