How the echo filters reality

It creeps up on me early morning and again late afternoon a microcephalic shadow, almost the length of a football pitch, Land of the giants view My childlike head is miles away and dwindling, constantly deflating Proteus syndrome echoes back through generations crossing time zones too Elongated diffraction casts a very long shadow, tapering reality Low sun dysmorphia projects a reflection of me, A filtered perspective revealing my only truth Those beans I threw away yesterday were not magic No golden goose lives atop the stalk just a grotesque shell, and one giant (yoke) flattening all potential I try look away but as always a grain of sand blocks my view Come chop me down, flinch as I fall Step over my shadow you’ll need (seven league boots) But most of all, no fixed roots!