A Lone Swing Poem by Skylar Harris

Late at night, a swing set sits by itself. As the clock strikes twelve, a lone swing started moving on its own.

A ghost of a man sat in the swing, and he used his ghostly legs to push the swing. He had a sad and strange expression on his pale white face.

As the clock strikes one, the pale ghostly man seemed to have vanished in a shimmer, the swing stopped while it made weird creaking noises, which eventually stopped.

And now, the swing stopped and no-one was there, except for a memory of a time and a man long forgotten by time and pain.