The Lines Not Crossed

‘Tis not a sword, but mightier, the ink but darkened blood. It takes me to the lofty peaks or rolls me in the mud. It hands me my humanity, upon a polished tray. And with a lapse in word or deed, jerks it all away. And with a lapse in word or deed, jerks it all away. ‘Tis ever cloaked in mystery, yet open to the sky. Influenced by the History of the days that have gone by. I reach for subtle crafting, the wit, the pain, the joy. The written word, the power has, to heal or to destroy. The written word, the power has, to heal or to destroy. And who am I to wield this pen? A right domestic scribe. Who writes, and writes and writes again, a frantic diatribe. I see the words ephemeral, I grasp for visions lost. The grandest of illusions are the lines I haven’t crossed. The grandest of illusions are the lines I haven’t crossed.