Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

In The Park


A prisoner of time to soon the past that none forgot,
it has bourne out the seed I planted long ago.
Children climb through the limbs,
furry squirrels now roam.

The merry go round still creaks and groans,
under the weight as children come and go.
Most have mother's whom still gossip,
as they did when mine was full of life.

Though the children seem to speak,
a different formless speech.
Mine is but a passing thought,
when even now the park is full of life.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2014
Edited: Saturday, January 04, 2014

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