Around here
ambition sleeps like earth under snow,
decisions made opposed to how we feel.
They make the heart grow weak.

Sure,
artists have been raised here,
escaping like hitchhiking beggars,
on horse drawn carts in the dark of night.

They talk to the driver and let slip their dreams
where they’re kicked out alone into a field,
with a rusted lantern that’s long since had oil.

A lone house on the hill
has its light on
it’s warm and welcoming.

These are the restless plains
where the young are aimless
and the old resentful

Keep things in check.