The gates to fun stand in rust, chipping away from the inside.
They now guard mere mementos that once amplified the voices of frolicking children from a seeming age gone by.
The trauma being nervous with despair about a distant tomorrow, with a wasted age of innocence waiting to fade like contrail.
“Why, oh why did those little feet that crossed my nonchalant gates to flutter in my garden, cease? What insurmountable fear were they fed that clipped their wings? Tell me now and tell me true, do they all still fly? I don’t know how, but I hope they do. I hope they do.”
The swing hasn’t felt the rush of wind cut through its icy chains in a long while. Stillness of time has made it too torpid to know if it’ll just creak, or will it break on flight.
The slides wait for dew and rain to run down on its slippery slopes just for the sake of sanity. Yet, they sound hollow without a puddle formed out of depression by the landing of tiny feet.
The ruins of the ball court is enhanced by surrounding weed. And the loop has already succumbed to loneliness, despite the attention.
The silent whimper of the locked gates gets further drowned by the indifference of the crowd. Yet its cheered on somewhere by the memory stills of yesterday, which envision a much better tomorrow than today.
digilitrat 
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