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“All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
  All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
  All discord, harmony, not understood;
  All partial evil, universal good:
  And, spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite,
  One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.”
    ~ Alexander Pope, Essay on Man, Epistle I (1734)

You’re the one on whom the dreaded skies are always falling
I’m the one who always draws the heat that brings them down
How we’ve come to live amid the lonesome peaks we’re calling
Home besides the times you’re certifiably in town
I can hardly say, not when folks drive each other crazy
Acting feeling being like each other all the while
If we’re not like them but like each other, we’re not lazy
Yet we’re not alike — and what could be more versatile?
If my skies could fall on someone else who’d hardly care
That might be a comfort till it turned into a bore
Maybe I would rather die than be that someone’s square
Home is our discomfort our despair our fog of war
Not because we fail to find our ways to get along
Not because we’re making sure that we won’t be outdone
Not because you’ve found that you’re too weak or I’m too strong
I’ve found what I’d give sweet life to find, and you’re the one.

    July 2015

Thanks always returns

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