A swing with rough rope strings
By a mountain cottage near a lake
Below me lie fields of grey green
Look at the scenery with a dull ache
My beige shoes are now above the horizon
Of the lake miles and miles below
Swing backward, my shoes brush the dirt then
The air suspends and time seems to slow
Swing up high again, my back almost parallel
To the grassy ground 10 feet below
If I slipped off this swing at this height and fell
I'd fall to my death some feet below
But isn't it so magical to just imagine
Slipping off the swing and fly so high
Fly over the treetops and wood cabins
And if I fall from here to fall up into the sky...
YOU ARE READING
AN ALBUM WILL REMEMBER
Poetry[ poetry/short stories/collection ] ❝ you made the truth into what I lied, and I lied that I was beautiful ❞ . . . a collection of rainbows, theories, and dreams, of words faded around the edges with meanings that nothing could ever fade. a...
