The Swing

Kind of a metaphor I suppose.

We hold on to the chain till our knuckles turn white

Pumping our legs to gain momentum

A pendulum of highs and lows

Of triumphs and defeats

We strive for the sky

Higher and higher till we touch the birds

And then we fall

Knees are skinned

Elbows are bruised

We get back on and swing some more

Until the day our swing is taken by someone else.