Dust Bowl Dream
Play a role till the gold of your soul runs dry
leave the ghost town far enough behind
through the parched winter of the mind
search for virgin glitter on the next horizon
The sirens sing to endless weaknesses
it takes everything not to cave in... again
take up the rusted sifter and battered spade
while digging for gold you're making your grave
ghosts of old town, sliding on down from the mountain
Roses are tossed to the echoes of the lost
the soul finds a fresh role in the shadow of
a dust bowl
dreaming.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2025
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