Small town, dreaming about getting
out, to the small city,
coulda used it as a stepping stone,
but who could ever leave the great escape?

Gotta love the walkability, the art
community, and the paradisiacal nature of it all—
the kind of place where surely a
bike crash could never happen.

And how many trinkets can you collect,
from how many souls? Tiny population,
but you’re proof that people
come. And go—

maybe because of signs,
or worse destinations calling
spirits on to their next necessary
stone,

leaving minds or plays behind, to spark
someone else’s dream—a ghost
inside a heaven, a clinging remnant of the
home you made for yourself inside the veil.