In nights hymns of reflection of betterment we stick stemmed to the roots
Tasting drops hung from its very branches
Suckling safely tucked truths before our gallows torment tempting the untruth.
Where must we speak?
I believe these untruths hold us wearily before we feel like thousands of acres of horses stampede on our soul.
Must they have a name?
Hidden beneath such a budging burden is an empty chest of looming crates casting us out
Can we fill our emptiness with what we desire is a whole in our truest destinies?