Late Night Poetry

The barn is crooked, old and gray,
The lumber has all dried and torn.
The sheen it once had in its day,
Has rotted off, and left it worn.
And in that abandon, reckless, decay,
The barn reveals its truest form.

For the barn is old, under crushing weight,
But its still standing. Look. Wait.
As that barn, through fires great,
Stands in spite, and stands up straight.

And as the harvest comes and goes,
The barn remains intact.
For all of the season’s to’s and fro’s,
Strengthen the barn’s back.

-Nick

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