the line between

the mystique held once

in this thing that still is desired,

fades---

be it a career

wanted, dreamed of, sought after with

such energy & glory

when one was younger,

be it an individual whose

then-shocking beauty,

whose then-chiseled

handsome hunkness,

whose then-passion seemed to

stir,

be it a mission that one

secretly felt that they held inside

(one that might place them on the

map with those already defined as

“delusional”),

be it a romantic ideal of a future,

a utopia, a brother/sisterhood, a

place where all the violence would

finally stop,

be whatever one likes,

be it whatever one can muster,

like the candle going down to its

last blob of wax, now spilling hot

across the surface of the table on

which it sits,

it all fizzles, it all

turns cold & leaves a hardened

stain

when the flame

extinguishes.

 

the line between those who do not

relight & those that pour on the gas,

the line between those who walk

out into the riot street with their

exhausted hands up (believing that

the shots will stop & that they’ll be

spared) & those that grip a Molotov

in their hands & cast out that first

vital punch into a wondrous walk

of newness again,

this may be a line that extends higher

than the Great Wall itself, build by one

human for the sake of one human’s

demise,

but it is a line drawn by that very same

hand &

if one cannot be forced to draw it

then…