The farm

By Phil Gioldasis
After the wind knocks against the
ruins of time.Stands mirror images
of comfort.A juncture of chestnut trees
of old.Coverned in thorn while resting
faintly outside an armed.
Covered with delights of hungry
minds.Wishing the well would be built.
For rememrance and forgiveness sake.
Old men of the forrest foothold an
witness an stand as a account.
Youth dreams with dreamy eyes.
With calculation an anticipation.Awaiting
their cheer an air.Surely we had dreamed.
Always overlooking the forrest for a
right balance of the ecological system.
For the deep dimensions an
contemplations of untouched purity.As
a claim an trumpet call