The Children by the Fence

Beneath the clouds, where silence clings,
Two children play on rusted swings.
A brother laughs, his sister spins,
Their echo rides the autumn winds.

They chase each other through the park,
Through leaves that burn, then fade to dark.
They skip past trees with hollow eyes,
Beneath a low and mourning sky.

Their voices sound like distant bells,
From places only absence dwells.
I watch them dance beside the gate,
Where shadows breathe and silence waits.

The old white fence — paint flaked and thin,
Still holds the world they wander in.
Its crooked boards, like fingers raised,
As if to trap the ones who strayed.

They never age. They never grow.
They never ask the things I know.
Their laughter flickers, sharp and bright,
Then vanishes like smoke in night.

And though they’re dead — I feel no hate,
Just sorrow wrapped in something great.
A pull, a thread I cannot break,
As if I dream, but still awake.

Sometimes I see them glance my way,
Their eyes unsure if I should stay.
Their faces shift — now joy, now fear,
As if I’m not supposed to be near.

And then — they’re gone. The swings now still,
The air turns sharp, the sky grows chill.
The fence creaks softly, not from breeze —
But something old, and not at ease.

I blink, and then I find I stand
Not in the park, but somewhere banned.
A place too quiet, dimly lit,
Where mirrors sigh, and shadows sit.

I see my face — but not quite right.
My pupils swim with silver light.
A shimmer lingers in my stare,
Like I’ve been seen — by something there.

Was I asleep? Or never born?
Or did I die that fog-drenched morn?
The park was real — I know it was.
The laughter, swings, the fence… because—

I felt their joy. I heard their cries.
I watched the storm pass through their eyes.
And part of me, I think, remains,
Still drifting through their ghosted lanes.

I walk the line where dreamers tread,
Between the living and the dead.
They come to play, I come to see—
But who’s the ghost? Is it… is it me?

I think I knew them once before.
Before the sleep behind that door.
Before the stars began to fade,
Before the world became afraid.

And now I haunt the same old space,
With children locked in time’s embrace.
The swings still creak, the shadows bend—
And still I wait to reach… the end.

Yet every dusk, they reappear,
With smiles too pure, and eyes too clear.
And though I stand beyond the fence,
I feel their joy… it makes no sense.

Because I’m cold. I’m not quite real.
And something lost is all I feel.
I watch them run — then disappear,
And whisper back: “I used to be here.

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