A Fine Line

There is a fine line
between art and anguish,
a very thin line
between hurt and hate.

I walk that line most days now
like a drunken driver walks
the line at the side of the road.

Boundaries mean nothing
in the game of in-betweens,
when angels become demons,
when red gets the better of green.

They say guilt can be forgiven,
but shame is a permanent stain,
the one can beg for mercy,
the other becomes your name.

So there is a fine line
between heaven and hell
when truth becomes theory
and hope is hard to sell.

A short and broken line
between living and dying,
a very short distance
between true love and lying.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012