Swing,swing.

 

It had been terribly long since I'd sat on a wing,let alone swung full force.

Awhile since I let go of my worries,drove them away into the wind.

And that's when I came upon..Upon a creaky old wooden swingset.

At the back of an apartment building,the seldom used set sat turningyellow.

One of them with an ageing slit down its centre.

And it had one screaming message carved all over it's being.

"People leave,they always do."

But then in a wise,old voice it said "People change.Memories don't."

A postive connotation or the wisdom for life in encrytption?

And today,this ol' swing set had found occupants,yet again.

A vial of joy for its withering soul.

They talked about fickle things-of how every singe year of a human life is drastically different,demarcating it significance in years.

And how psychologists in the country really needed to get to know some young people a little better.

And about friendlessness and birthdays and lack of creative space.

A sheltered domain of secrecy-conversations that will fray and rust like the reins that hold it up.

And yet of prime importance for the noursihment of two.