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The wind picks up, sending leaves scurrying
The woods are silent, full of shadows and secrets
Snow begins to fall, soft then flurrying
He did not understand, why he had so many regrets
But through the blizzard, he viewed a swing
Small and empty, lonely and forgotten
Seeing this swing, showed sadness to bring
The rope was molded, and the wood was rotten
But there it hung, old and weak
Moving gently in the breeze catching snow
He moved to it closer, his body now tired and meek
His hands grabbed the rope, to show that he did know
The swing was his friend, that he left long ago
When he laid down and died, in the unforgiving snow
 Russian Artist · Sat Aug 09, 2008 @ 04:27am · 0 Comments |
