This is a thin, precarious, Maginot line I tread,
So dangerous in step, with fear of dying
By the hands of either side.
What does it mean to age differently
Than the whole of the rest of the Earth?
No cross ever hung from my wall,
Nor line ever crossed in speech.
No prayer ever lingered over my table,
Nor prayer made willingly over me.
I walked the path between what some would call
“Good and Evil,” a line not easily followed
Without scars made along the way.
How many toes have I stepped upon
Along this path, how many souls have toed
In my journey? I’ve been crucified there, too,
And so not the only one. My path
Has been hounded and barricaded before,
But still I tread this faltering line.
As the weak forces of Good
Do battle against the unending waves of Evil,
I explain to the world, in my silent voice,
“Good and Evil are names given only by
Those from one vantage point. Even Evil
Must consider itself Good.”
But the world never hears, and even
My own ears feel deaf, and the line
Beneath my bleeding feet
Seems to waver and crumble…