A swarm of insects with wax paper wings,
Chanting Cicadas, used to sing to freedom
as we inspected the corners of the wooden swing set
built by our father’s innovation, in the warmth of August.

Little shells of creatures,
testing our courage,  and the agility of plump legs
should we have the misfortune
of finding one that had stayed behind.

I can’t remember ever, obediently
respecting my mother’s orders to come back inside.
But I must have, foolishly thinking she knew what was best
allowing the past
to tumble towards this present.

Had anything been up to me, I would still be outside
safe, the set has been swing-less for a while now.
Just a yard of decaying metal bodies; memories.
Those, which are only accidentally revisited.

The closest I will ever be to the sky now
is within these four blue walls, which were originally purple
but one morning I woke up, taking myself too seriously
not much else.  

Loneliness regretfully watches the sun sink
heavily behind a cheap, plastic fence.
Sitting on the cold neck of a rusted basketball hoop.
Another day insignificant enough to ****.

I hear everything and nothing at all, all at once.
This body, as useless as a swing-less swing set
as hollow as the cicada’s shell.
Youth can only bend so far, until it snaps.
And all you are left with
is the noise inside your head.