It breaks the sky and its flueorescent abode,
It burrows and envelopes beneath the surface of feeling,
The tree roots coiling like a distant road,
and all those who praise it with their appealing.
The mastermind, tangling ropes into veins,
the puppeteer, cutting deep into dreams,
the piercing stares of wailing pain,
It fills the silences by all and all means.
It lies so still beneath that wood,
you witness every a day,
when the mind skips gears and kills all that is good,
and your hope begins to sway.
It seems to show the trusted companion,
both compelling and rather regal,
the suffering evening's very dust,
A friend forged from velvet and needles.
Don't trust the stepford smiler.
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