The Dream of a Tire Swing
Copyright 2004 by Brenda J. Westerbur

In my graveyard of retired dreams hangs a tired-out tire swing
Amongst the buried, the abandoned, and the unremembered, pendulates this humble thing
Fastened feebly to its oak
With no tangible life ahead
With a slipknot slipped and a rotten rope
Only haunted by the life I’d led
With my dream of a tire swing

In my hunger and my determined denial, I felt I felt the wind
The falsehood of flight, a stagnant adventure, I flew willingly pinned
Rooted to one thrill
Yet finding no fault
Its reputation to fulfill
How easy to exalt
To stealing the dream of a tire swing

But the wind in my hair blew empty and sallow
The swing as it promised was honorably hollow
It lacked the means to carry me
The distance I was destined to fly
The Caller called me, his refugee,
“To be effective, the swing must die.”
So I burned my dream of a tire swing

I can see far past the horizon, with no destination in sight
And though I’m unsure where to land, I’m not afraid of the flight
The graveyard a scrapbook beneath me
My dreams laid to rest buried inside
My thoughts infer I feel curiously free
To find if I never returned, I could be satisfied
To a life without a tire swing



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