Draw a Line While You Still Can

Kudos to all who dare to read between the lines
and see what lies are told and what stark truth emerges
from lips that drip with blood or honey
depending on the day, the time, the lust de jour.
A slip, a word soul-chosen can reveal the blackness
of the soul or the naïveté that startles friend and foe alike.

Lines drawn in sand ebb and flow depending on the tide.
What once was solid yes is now a liquid maybe.
What is it that ears can hear when heads are firmly in the sand?
Only the throbbing of the waves that come and sweep away the lines
leaving barren stretches of smooth washed stones that belie
the naked footprints that once made a mark meant to last.

Down the narrow highway, a line divides the left from right
to keep the traveler safe from others’ harm if rules are followed.
And yet, there is a man who pretends he holds the plan
that will converge the lanes and lead all in one direction;
no broken stripes of passing lanes, no u-turns allowed
to traverse the width and breadth of paths freely chosen.

Lines conform and create a box that confines the foolish traveler
who sold his soul and freedom to purchase hope of change.
The change he bought for a price that he never would have paid
if his eyes had been open to the sharpness of the blade
which now carves up his flesh and causes blood to flow.
From his captive state, no protest is made as his life ebbs away.