She sits on the swings,

Eyes to the ground,

Tears of black streaming down her face,

A soul full of sorrow and bitterness.

The sky of red,

Black clouds,

Cast over a broken playground.

Chains of swings broken,

So long since use,

As pieces of wood hang lifelessly against the metal.

But one is still whole,

Black and swaying,

Where she sings her regretful song,

Stinging the air with the funeral lullaby.

Black hair hangs in her face,

Hiding her pale visage,

She is a wraith,

Barely there.

Teeter-totters squeak,

As the wind moves them up and down,

Playing like ghosts of happy children...

But she is oblivious to it,

White hands wrapped around the screeching chains,

Clothed fully in Victorian black.

Stark roses of white rest in her lap,

Contrasting with dark lace.

Silence so does split the air,

As light turns to darkness...

That is forever what she suffers.

And in the night you can hear the humming of the girl,

As it clutches upon the wind,

The words,

Yet need to be deciphered.

And black tears fall,

The corpse of a girl upon the swing,

Search the graveyard,

A girl with the name of Mary,

A white rose carved into the black headstone,

May she forever sing,

And they did not know those words carried a whispered curse.

The dead splendor upon the swing.