We play together on broken swings,
Clambering to keep our seat,
We hold on tight,
And the see saw sings,
We are on broken swings,
And the roundabout turns days to nights,
Atop of the slide,
You see such sights.
We are on broken swings,
Talking in the night,
No need to fight,
We are on broken swings,
The climbing frame is the route to the stars,
The sand pit,
To bury long dead dreams.
We swing no broken swings,
A green mile apart,
So it seems.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PuisiThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
