Melancholy memory brought her
to the playground of her youth,
but the truth is, she had never left.
On the third swing she sees herself
gently undulating, her rosy cheeks
contrary to her pale complexion;
a reflection of the ghosts long gone.
Feet dragging, kicking up the dirt like powder,
they stray from the grass more green,
a scene she replays with her every return.
She yearns for the days where a gentle
fling of her head would send a spray of gold;
her blonde tresses in the wind.
From the nearby bench I can see her;
having made this return of my own.
We are both grown now and wiser,
and like an sensuous seduction
the emotion of these fond memories
come to cover and protect her fragile heart.

Poetic Asides April PAD 2017 – Day 1: Reminiscing

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