Was shot by the feel in the heart
Of innate bereavement
Of hate, I’m a seamstress
Of constant debate:
In and Out are never the same!
A Harper might pluck out the cords
make think of the world
And watch it unfurl into love and the fair
Maiden: what are you telling me here?
To accept blunt minds and mediocrity?
For all men are made equal
But a Finch birdy once nebulously agreed
Some, it is true- not all.