The rusted wheel turns,
The breeze quickens,
The crops sway,
The sign swings,
The flaking paint floats away,
And until the day the farmer comes, To reclaim the place that once was,
Everything will be the same,
The forgotten farm will melt away.
YOU ARE READING
Little stories
Short StoryA bunch of short stories I have written, as well as the start of stories I likely won't finish. If you would like me to continue a story feel free to ave a comment. I have moved these stories from a different account
