Where the weeds have overgrown.

From boyhood years, I still recall        

running through a worn back door      
but my joyous shouts, they shout no more  
as my sister's sleep in a graveyard floor      
          
in this old home where once we lived        
tangled weeds have overgrown,      
the swing set’s now a rusted thing      
the see-saw waits alone      
          
our youth feels like a made-up dream      
lost picture frames display we three        
with Mom and Dad near        
the backyard tree      
          
yet sadly all that's left        
is me      

Author's Note

Old one revised.

Reviews

[Ana Papaya]

Time waits for no one. :(
It catches up with us all.
Solemn, poetic reflections...

[Relic]

Thank you, Ana. Your visit is much appreciated.

[Ana Papaya]

You are welcome, R.