​Love had a habit, 

Of blowing up, 

Fragmenting – 

Like bomb blasts,

And words would hit hearts, 

Like gun rounds

Leaving holes, 

In war-torn souls. 

Now – 

Love has a habit, 

Of showing up, 

Blanketing, 

The old pasts, 

Where white flags, heal hearts, 

Like truce sounds, 

Finding goals, 

As kindred souls. 

Kevin Brown © 07.08.2016

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