My wounds were like harmonica
holes in my heart; content with
soulful notes, but never rang.

How gently then you had
cupped your palms around my
perforated heart;
pressed your lips over it
and breathed love.

Those dormant wounds,
then finally bled, and the
pain felt like music.

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Because when in power, sometimes you don't need to create history. Sometimes you just need to ensure that some legacies continue.

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