A lone watchtower stands by the moaning shore,
Its shadow long, though eyes watch no more.
Salt-kissed winds whisper secrets of the sea,
But no soul stirs in its silent decree.

Once it scanned the horizon, steadfast and proud,
Now only gulls cry beneath gathering cloud.
Rust etches poems in its weathered face,
Time’s fingerprints left in every trace.

The tide comes and goes with a lover’s ache,
Touching its base, then gently breaks.
It dreams in creaks and the scent of brine,
Of voices lost in the strands of time.

Yet still it stands, as dusk turns to night,
A sentinel steeped in fading light—
Lonely, yes, but never quite bare,
For the sea and stars still know it's there.

The forest sleeps beneath a shroud of grey,
Where dawn forgets to find its way.
Each branch is cloaked in silver breath,
Suspended still, in quiet death.

No bird dares break the woven hush,
No footstep stirs the softened brush.
Only the mist moves, slow and thin,
Like ghostly fingers drawing in.

Moss clings tight to oaken skin,
Guarding secrets held within.
And somewhere deep, beyond the veil,
Old echoes ride the morning pale.

A place of dreams, or things once lost,
Where time forgets and paths are crossed.
The forest waits with breath held tight—
A world between the dark and light.

There once was a pineapple, proud and round,
Who somehow sprouted in farming ground.
Among the wheat and rows of corn,
He stood confused, alone, forlorn.

The carrots laughed, “You’re not from here!”
The turnips jeered, “Go disappear!”
But Pineapple puffed his leafy crown,
And said, “I’m tropic royalty, calm down.”

He tried to blend with grassy flair,
But sunburned cows just stopped to stare.
A scarecrow waved in silent cheer,
The only friend who came too near.

Then came the rain, a soggy squall,
And Pineapple held his ground through all.
The field soon saw, with sweet surprise,
He kept the pests from eating pies.

Now every crop from kale to pea,
Tips their roots respectfully.
The lesson clear, as farmers yield:
Don’t judge a fruit by where it’s fielded.