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The memory of pain, forever etched like the cracks on a statue. Remnants of a forgotten master, a dead king. Visible historical lamentations, so much clearer than simple memories. A touch, Digits entwined, The proximity of two engines As their gears turn, synchronized, Soft, fragile, corruptible, Yet dangerous, raucous, unheralding. So strange to lose control. The overpowering eagerness, the invisible fishhook reeling two flailing hearts from the comfort of the sea. And yet only the superficial wounds remain. Worn like jewelry. The softer scars, the ones that heal.
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Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:42 AM UTC
The Ones that Heal
The memory of pain, forever etched like the cracks on a statue. Remnants of a forgotten master, a dead king. Visible historical lamentations, so much clearer than simple memories. A touch, Digits entwined, The proximity of two engines As their gears turn, synchronized, Soft, fragile, corruptible, Yet dangerous, raucous, unheralding. So strange to lose control. The overpowering eagerness, the invisible fishhook reeling two flailing hearts from the comfort of the sea. And yet only the superficial wounds remain. Worn like jewelry. The softer scars, the ones that heal.
Written by
American
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:42 AM UTC
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