STOP
still locked , no trapped
in this crusty vale of tears
here in
the village of all men,
the sight and numb-ness
of water running backwards
is
my whiskey at the still
close of day
for
I am stopped from the play by your weakness
and I spray paint across the surface looking for a way out
&
the reasons are gone into time
here is the sad piano
burning in the bed of fat
stop
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