pain past perfection
He knew about my love lost, he knew bout mine, in the village of die , in the passage of hate, in the creed of a mind in the riddle of distaste , in the heart of a kind, knowing and pleading for a love like mine. He knew when and how to hold me , he knew when to say goodbye. He knew when to pleade and to love me , and when to slow down and let me make up my mind. Pain set aside like roses that die , crimpled and cringled and mine, a past to unravaled to really die, a life full of pain like a war without lies.
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