Lines

Where?
Where is the line
between the realist
and the romantic?

Is there some demarcation
drawn in the sand?

Where on one side stand those
who have offered their heart's
for the feast - in the offering
felt the fingers; velvet at first,
fondling the soul, morphing to thorn,
shredding hearts with each
gentle stroke?

A sacrificial oblation of self
and heart willingly laid
upon the table.

Where is the division between those,
and the bitter cynic who knows love
a wasted joke? Who in forgetting
the need to laugh to live build
endless walls, polishing blades,
watching, tearing, scorching
each seedling from the ground
lest feeling take root?

A cold lord strong
in isolation, collecting
the tax of relationship;
sacrifice.

_(06-13-2010)