The Swing

The vines climb over the old rusted chain

on the branch it hangs, has now gone rotten.

The boy who once played there has now been slain.

His innocence lost in days forgotten.

He spent his days fully under its shade

oily hands making paint chip and peel.

His innocence lost by a sharpened blade,

Growing up is hard, who knows how he’ll deal.

Off on his own, he has turned to the streets.

A stark difference to the life he knew,

A childhood spent under the softest sheets.

The swing still swinging, back and forward to.

No matter, youth will always fade away,

as is in life, innocence will decay.