Heart —
   hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
    down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
     each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.

It starts with a pit —
    a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —  
                  where does a heart take root?

Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
  the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.

They said,
    “the great tree fell.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?