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Swing

Tightly tied to the tender oak,
The rope was frayed by seasons passed.
The rain, the show, the wind all fell
turning those noble chords to mere strings.

And as that dreadful number grew.
So did the distance between the two...

The gentle plank has splintered now,
No longer a perch for the youthful pout,
But that sorry seat still calls
To the past it pleads to see.
It sways in such a sorrowed beauty
in relentless daily misery.





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