Well.
Time plays the providential surgeon. Weaving sutures through my despondence, with steady hands and unwavering pace.
Thus, the wild blue yonder resplendent beyond measure would once again be my minstrel.
So here is my hand, not words said desperately.
We are all the same people
With sinning hearts that make us equal
Here’s my hand, not words said desperately
It’s not our job to make anyone believe
:)