My rusty chains yelp and squawk Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs Bound to this Bastille of a rotting exterior Eventually decrepit, at first, from use Now merely deteriorating as of neglect
Once-stimulating summers fade Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings Dejected and funereal Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled The lengths of my now cadaverous frame— Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate
I yearn For a sudden rekindling Reminiscing About memories only I can keep alive For the exploiters I was dependent on, Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed Yet I still stoically anticipate their return
I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low My faith, my only zeal
written while bedridden with mononucleosis.
first person narrative of an old swingset whose owners have all grown up and moved out, leaving him to rust in the garden and allowing the wildlife to engulf him.