The more you deny

that truth be knocking on a door
while to the night, the mind will frown.
flowers do blossom from deep down
when morning rays come from the shore.

those nights, words were drunk to stupor
and the thing that followed were tears.
let go of guilt and all the fears—
the fire by those fingertips
only give memories more whips
and less of lies for its repairs

Ruddapoet