The ageless before me
continue to weep,
the wounds of the world
still fresh on their minds.
But these hurts pour forth--
lines, notes, words...
You call them "music, art"...
We call them our lives.
Of the colors that
bleed through my veins,
none become visible without
one simple heart stroke.
I could not be cut off,
removed from myself,
any more than I
could not write you.
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