I tread a fine line;
It is drawn not in pastels but in faded ink-
It sent me to the brink and back;
I cannot say I haven’t been attacked-
By it, my wit does not outdo it-
It is the line of the sane and the mad,
The gifted and the Christened;
I can’t say if it is either good, or bad, nor,
Can I say I’ve had trouble crossing it.
It is in archaic language, yet with modern thought;
It is hard to decipher for one who is not-
Well versed in treading thin lines;
Between good or bad, happy or sad-
A lasting trend or a passing fad.
It requires a certain intuition;
A certain perseverance to bring it to fruition;
To see the grey shades and black and white cascades;
Of this line I tread.
And I do wish it was you who treaded, instead.