Misery.
It’s twilight for unicorns
and a swing creaks, its chains
rasping from disuse. The sand box
is empty of children, there are no
voices or reminders of an innocence
that I once carried in my pocket, a single
pearly-white stone now abandoned for the
dark grey pocketfuls of adolescence.
Somewhere in the landscape of metal and
cement, I used to wake up to a lush green
fantasy, alive with dust and dragons.
It is my own legend that buries
my shadow in the creep of nightfall,
unwilling to accept the death of a forest, it
expires in the midst of
vertigo. The only sound that resonates is the
staccato of my abandoned
footsteps, as the looming shadows of a solitary tree
swallows me whole.
