A long shafom from a small center

The ever long shadow,
It begged to start over,
Yet the root contrived from the I want,
Found a heart,
Yet let us call it a vine....

So divine the truth is often defined by the tool,
In the hand of the hatchet...

Regression with pleasure most times takes the deep to shallows,
Making truth into baked grandma cookies...

Yet the ugly still stands,
On a perch looking down,
In a view from a prism the meek believe is above decadence.

Feeling something is better than being numb in the deepest depth of a heart in a ocean,
We cannot even explore..

Once more, the tides galore and the ignorant shine,their dull dulls of muster...

Yet the dust.. the dust rise once more....