White washed wood
with a whistling rush of wind.
Where rounds of woodchuck beer
past the rustling of chips and laughter.
Empty bottles, elaborated clinks.
Even every inch of eager filled smiles
covers the thoughts of enamored hearts;
Entrusted with faults and sorry's to be accepted.
Are the ancient artifacts,
again the reason we think that trust is best?
A beer is best passed along with time.
Here's the drink, calm down please.
Resting in reverie,
is this really what we pretend it to be?
Requesting solace from a drink and company?
Ritually wrought instincts and partially rellished revelations.
You'd never understand if it wasn't for being young.
Yearning for years and solemnly sought
yells and whispers.
Please, I'm tired, hand me another beer.