GOLDEN FIELD
In a field of gold, where wildflowers once did sway,
Now lies a house, the only one for miles away.
The field, once green, now dried and cracked with age,
A testament to time's relentless, steady stage.
The wind whispers through the trees,
A mournful melody played,
As leaves dance in its embrace,
Their colors slowly fade.
The house, a beacon of hope in this desolate place,
A refuge from the sun, the wind, and the chase.
Its walls, a warm embrace, a shelter from the heat,
A place to rest, to dream, to find some sweet treat.
A house stands solitary,
Its windows are dark and still,
A witness to the seasons' change,
A silent sentinel.
The fields, stretch, a vast and endless sea,
A canvas of gold, a masterpiece to see.
The house, a jewel, a treasure in this land,
A symbol of hope, a promise to withstand.
The sun sets in a blaze of reds,
As shadows lengthen and grow,
The world falls quiet and still,
As night begins to show.
The wind, whispers secrets, of days gone by,
Of memories made, of laughter and sighs.
The house, a haven, a place to call home,
A refuge from the world, a place to roam.
In this place of hushed repose,
Where time seems to stand still,
I find a peace that soothes my soul,
And fills me with a gentle thrill.
