As we swing
time does its thing
the world goes by
and music rings.
A silly little ding
as we swing
a bell goes ‘round
and cracks the ground.
Hole opens wide
there’s souls inside
as we swing
a demon sings.
We cringe and bray
our ride’s strings fray
this rope stings
as we swing.
The end is near
both hanging here
no escape we fear
last fingers hang
as we swing.
– Sandra Johnson, 9/2/2023
Rather darker than your others! But taken all in all, I admire your experimentation with a wide variety of forms, playing with them this way and that. And poeming does want to be a form of play, does it not? Thank you for your words.
I have some darker ones- haunted home is a favorite. But I love the ominous essence of this one.
And thanks for your input.