He swings an empty chair, of a thought
that was once there. He misses what filled
this space of what was once permeated
on this spot but is no longer here.

In the night you can hear it swing,
But the thought persists is he there swinging
or the echoes of what was once there.

The wind was fanning upon the trees,
as the leafs fell in haste, the swing was
static like frozen on the spot.

Everyone missed the little child who loved
to play on swing. But I tell you this I still think
he plays there even though he's no longer here.