Poetic Verses
Lines
Fine lines of definition
between life and death and time
designed to mark the boundaries
in syncopated rhyme
Like one hand to wash the other
each different, yet, a mate
One purpose for another,
a pair they create
A staff to write the music
for life's melody
A blank yet ruled ledger
to hold ideas so neatly
A wall so fine to see through
like a window pane
to distinguish from the other
like love and disdain
The ends of the spectrum
and then where lies the middle
The negative to positive
all points of a riddle
The lines are then the markers
of darkness and of light
of all things and creation,
be they black or white
The boundaries of the heaven
The boundaries of the hell
In the middle is our earth
This place we know well
The boundaries of what is holy
to the boundaries of what is sin
the hash marks that we tally
that give us entry in
The queue of those who wander
Knowledge that we gain
The mirror image we ponder
with happiness and pain
The moment we took that breath
'til our last exhale
A series of lines distinguish
whether we pass or fail
And every line is but a truth
The lines, they never lie
They keep us straight and narrow
or sometimes go awry
They show on every hand we shake
They show on every face
The lines reflected in the mirror
are etched for us in grace
11/15/11
between life and death and time
designed to mark the boundaries
in syncopated rhyme
Like one hand to wash the other
each different, yet, a mate
One purpose for another,
a pair they create
A staff to write the music
for life's melody
A blank yet ruled ledger
to hold ideas so neatly
A wall so fine to see through
like a window pane
to distinguish from the other
like love and disdain
The ends of the spectrum
and then where lies the middle
The negative to positive
all points of a riddle
The lines are then the markers
of darkness and of light
of all things and creation,
be they black or white
The boundaries of the heaven
The boundaries of the hell
In the middle is our earth
This place we know well
The boundaries of what is holy
to the boundaries of what is sin
the hash marks that we tally
that give us entry in
The queue of those who wander
Knowledge that we gain
The mirror image we ponder
with happiness and pain
The moment we took that breath
'til our last exhale
A series of lines distinguish
whether we pass or fail
And every line is but a truth
The lines, they never lie
They keep us straight and narrow
or sometimes go awry
They show on every hand we shake
They show on every face
The lines reflected in the mirror
are etched for us in grace
11/15/11
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Lines
Lines
