Matters of the heart are like wools entwined
Spherical and complex, with intricate binds
Yet start nor end, nowhere will you find
Such that its creation, you cannot rewind
Worse still when it is of a kaleidoscopic hue
When many different threads have been somehow imbued
Separate lines that confuse, that weaken and distort
Such that it soon disintegrates and comes to nought
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