Poem #2

The mining towns, oh how you've grown, what once was ours, is yours to own. From dusty tents to wooden frames, you rose to whisper fortune's names. The mountainside, a canvas torn, where hope and desperation born. Each shaft a gamble, deep and dark, leaving behind a human mark. The clang of pick, the miner's plea, for wealth that few would ever see. A fleeting fever, wild and grand, then ghosts would haunt this shifting sand. The laughter, loss, the whispered curse, reflected in the universe. The peaks still watch, serene and high, as human dreams beneath them lie.