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Blow The Wind Down

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Blow the wind down against the rusted gallows of decay
and broken bones swallowed by the cold fingers of the
narrator’s aftershave and 5 o’clock shadow echoing the
anvil, tying the man down 

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    1. Dear Poet, this poem is a brutal, metallic self-imprisonment. The rusted gallows, the echoing anvil, the cold, pressing imagery – I can feel the inescapable weight of existence in every line. Even the aftershave lingers

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