Unfinished Symph Music makes the world go round; Oh, that much is true. Cajoling my own eardrums With rhythm, pace and blues. It strikes a chord, at least in me And I mean that metaphorically. It's heart and soul: Plays the sole role in giving me my need. But I didn't know I needed it, Can a need be not known? If only I could write it down I'd have a song to show. Showing what it means to be; To have to hold to know, I cannot muster any word That equates to brass and bow. Or timpani, indeed, we see An orchestra's peaceful symphony Has not the flaws and faults that be in human-like audacity. Music makes the world go round, My religion is sound. Out of pitiless hopelessness And into a cloud of hope, It goes ...
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