In a cinder block building Formed of red earthen clay On the farm where it stood I would while away The hours of youth Comprising my day. The pump-house was home To a lost childhood Forty-five acres Of farmland and wood; An outpost surrounded By all that was good. In the quiet of evenings Or at the sun’s peak, From the cold cement floor Some solitude seek Alone with the thoughts Which inhabit the meek. Troubled the soul By fortune unknown, The heavens unbounded I float on a stone, Paradox thoughts Are best served alone. Consoled in the comfort Of the mortared and filled, The ponderous seed Considered and tilled; Uncomfortable thoughts, Soon settled and stilled. To the lost and abandoned, A requiem rhyme Recalled in these thoughts Of an earlier time. Salve for the soul; The blockhouse sublimeLeave a Comment
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