Her love would surely grow. She planted it and watered it with beauty that she'd shown. She sat beneath its branches, sighing in the shade. She marveled at the little piece of magic that she made. She took it in her heart and placed it in his hands, it blossomed and it flowered and away with it he ran.
“People walk a tight rope on a razors edge
Carrying their hurt and hatred and weapons.
It could be a bomb or a bullet or a pen
Or a thought or a word or a sentence.”
Brett Dennen | “Ain’t No Reason”
