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The Iron Windmill
The gears are dry,
but grinding still,
grating like an iron windmill.
Scraping and scratching
with a deep harsh hiss.
Milling thoughts and words like this.
The light burns yellow in the writer's room.
A red leather tomb to books unwritten,
for all is slow,
the words don't flow.
The gears are bent with mighty forces.
They creak and crack,
and crush and grind.
Scraping and scratching.
The iron mill of mind.
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