I sit here in silence <br />where it's so dark that I can barely trace <br />the shadow of smoke escaping from my lips. <br />I'm secluded here with the squeaking chains of the swing set, <br />the distant sound of early morning sprinklers, <br />and the melody of croaking frogs and cricket songs. <br /> <br />My hair and dress dance in <br />the gentle breeze of the midnight air. <br />My fingers close upon the chains of the swings <br />as I lean back to gaze at the stars <br />and exhale the smoke from my lungs. <br />Cigarettes burn too quickly in moments like these. <br /> <br />My flip flops and toes are sprinkled with the white sand. <br />I remember happier days when I came here to play, <br />so alive with clean veins in the warm sunlight <br /> <br />I wasn't so alone then. <br />Friends that have now faded into memory <br />would surround me as we would talk of nonsense and boys <br />laughing, while swinging higher and higher <br />until our stomachs felt that sensation of flying. <br />The world seemed so much smaller then <br />and gravity didn't push down as strong. <br />It was easier to soar. <br /> <br />Now, the night is so dark <br />with the shadow-covered moon. <br />I'm alone again, <br />though if I listen, <br />I can still hear the echoes of the past <br />and I can almost feel the presence <br />of the nostalgic rays of the sun trying to reach me. <br /> <br />Once again, I'm getting dizzy <br />swinging higher and higher, <br />trying to regain that feeling of flying. <br /> <br />You'll never clip my wings<br /><br />Amy Backus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/swinging-at-midnight/
