A twisted poem about lines at out feet and those of us who dare to cross them. |
-A Fine Line- by Keaton Foster There A fine line Written Crafted Scratched into skin Carved into bone Dug down Deep into the dirt By who Exactly when And why All of it Not known Could it have been painted An outline Of what was to become Permanent Was it the master’s hand Or just some fool With a brush and no rule Does such distinction Even matter Does such peculiarity Imply relevance Such lines are not Physically identifiable But rather Transversely reliable Always at our feet Regardless of place Position, or relation of space Such lines are always there Such lines are burned Into the core of our minds Parallel with our spines From our feet to our crown From our connection To our outward bound affliction Just here I do stand Without fear At the edge On one side Is the world The one That I refuse The one That I won’t know The one For all else to reside On the other side Is opposition Is resentment In everything That concerns me Is everything That drives me On the this side Is me, my heart, and ideas A fine line Is all that separates All that divides An indication of departure Thus the duality of my station There A fine line Written Crafted Scratched into skin Carved into bone Dug down Deep into the dirt By who Exactly when And why All of it Not known I’ll spend my life The sum of it all Every moment in time Every second so sublime I’ll pay it all For the answer To the questions That I alone am asking The answers will outlive me The answers will supersede A few hundred years from now I am quite confident That what I’m saying Will remain A fine line To be crossed To be feared To be revered All of it within each line All within my own time… A Fine Line Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2014. |