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It's not really late to say I know now. How flowers grow,  How earth is moving How you are moving How I am still.   And still I look For signs,
Long exposure trees and shadows   Freaky black things Looking Beautiful   diamonds against red and blue green
    Sometimes it HurtsTo Live in a Bright LightVirtue and KindnessAre Lost to the Pain     Look for an AshlightAnd find a Middle-GroundBecause You can't always be RightAnd You can't always be Wrong
Drip-drip, pitter-patterA steady pace to punctuate a thoughtTurns to a down-pour with a crack of thunderAnd a single thought becomes a roar
i believe in the magical qualities of snow,the healing powers of my mother’s cooking,the emotional aftershock of a good book,midnight rants about the world,
It's just not about the dates or the facts that follow. Reading thousands of pages. Finding the truths in all the words written hundred year old pieces of parchment. It is about all the lives that were impacted.
Nations that grow weeds Fall, but buds grow back again, And they bloom once more.
They presume themselves great They see themselves as masters Twisting words to their design It doesn't work that way It sounds hollow to the tormented And they can't help but question "Who are you
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