May 2015
It is purest before the scratch,
A stain on white,
Like roots it grows beneath,
Not seen but there till the
Point its pollen Comes forth,
And with each shard
Shattering on the purity,
Till like ash crushed to black.
A stain on white,
Like roots it grows beneath,
Not seen but there till the
Point its pollen Comes forth,
And with each shard
Shattering on the purity,
Till like ash crushed to black.
A soul white the darkness is beneath till to late and is shredded with darkness touch
