The Playground

June 5, 2011
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The empty swings rock back and forth
as if the souls of little children still play here.
As I sit down on one it creaks a happy sign wanting me to stay
But I must move on,
Walking by the sad, dying field the yellowing blades wave me a sad goodbye,
The empty holes at each end will never again be filled by nets and soccer balls.

It's dying, this place, this place of unadulterated childhood joy.

What kid wants to play in a cold metal forest of poles and bark chips,
When they could be painting their nails or watching TV.

As I walk past the slides the emptiness engulfs me,
This place could be so beautiful with the sounds of laughing children.

But innocents is in the past.

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