Like crumpled love letters written in the constellations and glittering scrolls of old promises kept across a winter velvet sky,
This old farmhouse holds secrets buried deep at the heart of its very soul just begging to be torn open again and so I-
Read each story from a rocking chair with peeling paint where stories are told on an old creaking porch,
The cowboy rides in shadows but makes his words heard, carrying fireflies in his pockets and the moon as his torch,
Down dirt paths that are well worn by decades of hooves and worn-in leather boots and led by wise old hands,
He rides on endlessly until dawn, lighting the way for those who believe in the magic of an old fashioned romance.