Wayne Orr

Beneath Montana’s endless sky,
the wind combs through the splintered frames,
where silver veins once lured the bold—
now dust claims each forgotten name.

The saloon door creaks a hollow tune,
a piano’s ghost hums rusted keys,
while shadows kneel where miners crouched
to sift the earth for fickle keys.

Boot prints linger on warped boardwalks,
sun-faded signs still boast their lies,
and nightfall drapes the empty streets
in stars that mirror dead fireflies.

The mountains guard what time erodes—
each crack, each echo, every scar.
A town’s last breath is never gone…
just borrowed by the twilight’s ear.