I'm trying to find what speaks to me in moments of lucidity.
Grasping at forgotten dreams of nightmares I've been conjuring.
And the lies I weave within myself have a taste like acid that my stomach's felt.

But no sweetness lies within my mind and no honey runs along my spine.

I find lackluster ghosts within my soles
Always telling me where I should go.
But heaven sent I am not
And I'm proving that with impure thought.

So why is it that in seconds of dreams I care not to know what's happening?
Can my soul descend from where it is
Or am I stuck inside this bend?