The Park

It tucked away my childhood

In large pieces, plastic and green

It held such lovely memories

Though now they're naught to be seen

The wood, it may be rottting

The splinters, a tad bit dry

But symbolically, 

Do you understand

Whilst tearing it down

You're leaving my past to die?

A slide is a slide

But a memory's what I make it

And you have made it 

Impermanent.

Torn down, to be made better

Impersonal lies.

This is called growing up.