The witching hour kills
like a day of closed curtains.
There were words gone wasted--
a writer's pet peeve.
Forced to recite
the same script at gunpoint
until stale lungs
knew the syllables' rhythm.
Marinate in shame
behind enemy lines
where they won't be permitted;
where the blood has congealed.
These chords were stolen
from a man who played better.
This is a song about swinging a noose.
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