Swinging Time By

I met her when I was nine under a tall apple tree that held two swings side by side,
We would go there everyday to play an swing and imagine we could fly,
And as the years went quickly by we would no longer swing to pass the time,
instead we lay and talk about what lay on each others mind.
And at other times we would sneak out and meet under the tree at night,
to lay underneath the purple blue, start light sky
and that's when she would usually put her hand in mine.
But one day as I walking up to meet her, i saw her already there looking solemn on the swing,
when she saw me, she forced a smile
And I Asked "What's wrong?" and she simply replied "I'm sick"
And after that day we me started to meet for less and less each time,
Until one day she didn't come at all, and i knew why,
So i sat on my swing and began to cry..

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Mardigan's picture

Very moving poem, and your

Very moving poem, and your rhythm is at the apex of sublime.
We sometimes may not live long lives, but those short lived ones are most times the fully lived ones, and if this poem is any consolation, than I say this applies.

MyinsecureSelf's picture

Thanks your comment Means a

Thanks your comment Means a lot, and i agree “It is not the length of life, but the depth.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson