A bell tolls in the distance. Sheeted cloud covers the brown open.
You look up, on tip toes, through a gap in the fence, to long, empty clinks. Through the spy hole, on the other side, linger empty seats, suspended eternal from gunmetal gray lines. Seats twist in the breeze.
The open plain overwhelms this set, engulfing it in it's overwhelming dinge. Alone, forlorn, forgotten, abandoned by children who on it ought play. Cracked rubber droops, dragged down by endless parading time.
Weatherworn posts lean at angles, hardly holding against the gray void.
This is a hole of a playground, in a lost city.
Who could want this?
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