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The Windmill
If it moves, it moves slowly,
Groaning Through it all, Protesting.
Like Atlas, it holds our little world.
Shielding Us from urban interlopers Threatening The sanctity of our town and country. Yet we still hear The dreams of A seven year-old boy, Gazing At the burning red fire truck Hungrily, saying "I want to be Just like them!" Instead enslaved By amber bottles. Like his father before him, Slumping In the chair, Staring Blankly at the wall the bank Will confiscate. The only life is the lit cigarette in His hands. He would not Fight the fire; He ignited it, Devouring, drowning His lifeless body in Miller Lite, Dying... Until The Next Go ‘Round.
#Unreal #Poem #SmallTown #Windmill #LittleProgress #Cycle #ConfiscatedWill #RuralRealities #Audio
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