Weak at the knees.
Topple my tree with the slightest breeze.
They need just about all I can't give
After panning me through their silver sieve.
I don't pray much but I know when I'm alive
I can't keep traditions 'cause I keep them all inside.
You know just about all that I know
When it comes to sorting out which way that I should go
The wind blowing
A storm still waiting back behind
It's always over me
Taking its toll
This lyric is from the song Silver Sieve, by Snowmine. It was my #1 song of 2014. I couldn't help but think of it when reading your poem.
I think you should drop "truth" down a line though so it stands on its own.