The little boy on the swing sang a song
But all the lips around can’t sing along:
A song he sang for each tear he hast shed,
A song again for each scar which once bled.
The little boy on the swing wore a mask
So all the eyes around won’t see to ask
About the alter ego hid beneath;
The one who wept and bled but kept his grit.
The little boy on the swing played a harp
Held within his chin and upon his lap.
A solemn symphony did he disperse
Peeling the vizard, he sung every verse.
For what is solitude without content
But sadness, despondency and lament?