Little Red Swing

Each step a bit colder.
Every breath, a little shorter.  
Down a path, not so different from before.
It's familiar yet un-cared for.
Stones and bones lay thin and worn,
though they do not forget their prior form.
Unsteady marching is lifted with pride,
as ghostly children run past the eye.
Every moment makes them grow older and bolder,
it matters not that the mind may be disordered.
Sounds of swinging fill the air- Halfway there.
A tree stands in the middle of nowhere.  
Another heart caved to its bark,
it seems everyone must leave a mark.  
The little red swing should've be hanging by a string.
The little red swing should’ve lost all of its gleam.
Yet strong it stands, unwilling to decay,
its core is not something to be thrown away.
Fingers grip tightly knees buckle slightly.
Flying, soring, freedom grasps ever so tightly.
Flowers bloom and birds sing in pairs.
Warmth fills the air as it shaves the white ground bare.
This must be bliss,
nothing is amiss.