Logger Time

My first bike, where I learned to trust

Was harvested, felled down by rust.

The street where balls and cars collide

Is split in the middle, with lights on each side.

The old tree fort, by sleepovers crowned

Was partly recycled, and rots on the ground.

My first school, where was dropped by mother:

Razed to the ground, to build another.

The park were neighbor kids would play:

An office, parking, all in gray.

Memories stay longer, still can't last

As logger Time cuts down my past.