In the midst of solitude, on a weathered post it stands, on a weathered green post, it stands alone, A green mailbox, its presence humble, in quiet, open lands, A green mailbox, its presence overgrown.
Its gold flag, once a sentinel, now lies gently down, a sentinel of solitude, on a road unnamed,
No letters rest inside, no news from town to town. Its gold flag rests, as if in slumber’s claim.

Spider webs, delicate and fine, adorn each side, with no letters nestled within, no envelopes to unfold, The webs are words of rejection, in silence they abide, No messages of joy to comfort the old.

No news of love or laughter, of distant family near, A green mailbox on a lonely stretch of lane. The mailbox stands as a witness to the passage of each year, Where solitude and stillness forever remain,

A green mailbox, on this lonely road, resides, Spider webs cradle its sides, like fragile lace,
No letters are to be received, where the lonesome road abides. A silent testament to time’s steady embrace
And if by chance a letter came, a secret it would keep, if by chance a letter found its way,
only the spiders, in their silent vigil, would read, and weep. Only the spiders would gather to survey.

In this quiet corner, where time like webs are slowly spun, No letters received, no hands grasp,
to open with joy, words of comfort, ‘neath the setting sun, In this quiet corner, only echoes of the past.
A green mailbox on a lonely road, it stands in patient grace, A green mailbox, a relic of yesteryears, No letters are to be received, only nature’s embrace. Touched by the webs of time, whispers, and tears.

For in the absence of letters, it bears a tale profound, So let it stand, a symbol of days gone by,
Of moments lost to time, where silence is the sound, of letters that once danced, like birds in the sky,
No letters come to grace, no words written with care, the mailbox stands forgotten, its purpose fled, Yet in its solitude, it whispers stories held dear. In the realm of silence, memories are spread.