Beneath a sun-bleached sky, the old bones lie—
dust weaves through splintered doors, a hollow sigh.
The saloon’s cracked glass hums a rusted tune,
as shadows waltz where gold once burned the moon.
A creaking sign still croaks the vanished name,
while sagebrush claims the hearths that lost their flame.
The mine’s black throat whispers what time untold—
of pickaxe dreams that turned to phantom’s gold.
Now dusk unspools the ghosts in cobalt light,
their laughter etched in stars that pierce the night.
The wind through rafters chants what stays unsaid:
“We built our empires, then became the dead.”
But Bannon breathes in every sun-scorched stone—
a tomb, a testament, where silence owns
the weight of thirst, the rush of fleeting ore…
The earth remembers what we’re yearning for.