Poetry Blogs (old desk job by-gones malleable wrought ruins blac)

Pig's iron, shining on the dead eye's pistol. 
Forged soft in the furnace of Manilla summer nights.
Even Kingpin's dreams can go awry, much like holding a world's weight in sand
worth just as much as you can't seem to hold.

What a miserbale business this is.
Deadening the nerves, overflowing with checks and balances;
Component after component, traded, bought, and sold, for little pieces of us.

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