The instruments play music
But not all instruments have melody.
Some are silent.
When the wind blows,
Along many stories flows.
The stories not known.
〔A collection *of poems by my embarrassing past self's*.〕
She who knows him all; as if the back of her mind As if undead, she comes back from grave Creeping her way back to him, Manipulative as hell, she fakes her death Haunting him, he was a puppet with no string
Though revenge he wants, she is sly as a fox, reading all his moves.
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