The children have all gone; they've left it and moved on. There is no more laughter, no shouting; just the eerie sound of wind blowing through, rustling the leaves on the lone tree and rattling the chains of the swings. Here the lonely playground sits in disrepair, waiting for someone to tear it down and put an end to its misery. The seesaws have lost their handles, the swings hang tangled and maimed, the tetherball has been taken from the pole, and the monkey bars are rusty and ready to collapse. What could be the last merry-go-round in the state sits beaten down and unappreciated; desperately waiting for someone to come spin it, so it can feel loved and useful again. Just like the rest of this place, it has been slowly decaying for years; thinking someone would come and fix it any day, for the children if nothing else. It knew that they still loved it, even though it had become out of shape and, according to some, dangerous. But the repairs never came. The children left for the summer as usual, but this time, no matter how much it needed and missed them, they didn't come back. It was being replaced. All it needed was a little work, and it could make the children happy again like it had for decades. But no, for all it had given through the years, they were leaving it to die a slow, lonely death. Now it lays in limbo, not knowing if or when they will come to deliver the final blow. Occasionally some lonely soul will pass through and visit the old playground on its deathbed, and maybe ride the merry-go-round or the swing; they can do nothing to save it, but it feels needed one last time.