The Empty Bench and Me

By Amina Zara K.S

I stroll by the park,

Revisiting childhood memories.

I see the wind shaping,

silhouettes of my past 

the monkey bars I hung from,

the rock that scraped my knee.

My eyes wander,

and I land upon the bench.

An illusion of colours washes over me,

Unlike the red of the bench

I notice the difference between the bench and the slide 

like the clothes of my past,

bright and gaily,

life pouring down its path.

I see myself in the cars passing by,

black and taut,

Life drained out of their path.

“What happened to my sweet girl?”

My mother asks,

unaware that her daughter

rusted long ago.

I search for answers

beneath the footprints,

beneath the rocks,

But find none.

Before I depart, I stare at the bench,

realising we are the same:

listless, corroded, empty.

I seem to have made a friend 

the empty bench in the park,

and me.

By Amina Zara K.S