To be many things
Torn in different directions
Not respected for the core

People don’t believe
But the world rolls in
Blindness and disbelief

Words weave but not well enough for art
Just a blind dog snuffling in the garbage for scraps

To see is to know
But the truth is rendered silent
It does not echo what you hold
In your heart

Easier to fight than to build
To break than to Mend
Though the field must be burned
Before seed will again take root

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