“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”
Maybe in a different paragraph of the same story
I’ll understand both sides, I’ll sympathize with the instrument being played
rather than the hands that are playing it.
Maybe I’ll interpret music, like a canto
from take one till take four
and applaud the musings in the music, and the
scattered parts of my brain lying on the floor.
Why can’t the effects of the mind and its working, let flow the faucet interrupted?
Everybody knows, explosions fantasize about the calm anyway.
Like the river ragin’ at the soil like a bull, not letting it create its own path,
New inventions and meanders heard erosion and took a stand.
What are these bonds we create but mere phantoms looking for ways to stay
Like the thread that keeps cloth woven, yet we thank our body for the warmth and not such day
Roam lost, you’re but a feather shed by an extinct bird, going with the wind.