The Swing of Memories
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PREFACE :
an old swing that once seated life now lays abandoned, encompassed within the
confinement of wild,unkept backyard the old man is left with. for a person, who has
been through every flavour of life, using this swing is a respite- a getaway from his
aloofness. And, more than that
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There's a swing in the backyard, that lies unkept, hidden
that breathes through its cracks, yet remains dust laden
it glides through the wild growths, the over-grown weeds,
fireflies..in a cluster follow it along..as the wooden swing leads
it touches the farthest twig of the tree..that extends to the starry sky
leaping over the patches of green..witnessing the silence cry
at night, the swing comes to life, when it occupies a lonesome soul.
miles and high, it takes him along...and then, the memories unfold!
the crimson memories flare up, come to life.
and he's now amidst his childhood, its little games..and little lies
but soon the mortal cloud of his memories break, and it begins to rain
his watering-nostalgic eyes get so over-drenched ..that it seems hard to bear the
pain
another push, and the swing glides yet again.
and now he(the person) is pushed back to the time..when he was slender, young
and sane.
those perfect strong shoulders, and a grit that cuts through steel
soak him up in pride, as so empowered he feels.
and then, again..the swing ceases to glide..
his memories begin to fade away..like on the sand, a relentless ocean tide.
he catches his breath, as he prepares for one last ride
he thrusts his feet onto the grassy patch, and there he goes again...he watches the
swing taking him, rise.
but this time, he laments the losses he has had, the times that could've been better
the midnight moon penetrates through leaves, and on his swing it seems to scatter
comes to a halt, eventually..his swing. his memories have made him hollow
yet, another night...he'll kill his sleep, riding on the swing..shall rather watch the
fireflies follow.
Copyright © Prashant Dhyani | Year Posted 2011
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