Genocide

There is a line between most things.
That line blurs,
it bends,
it shadows,
it warps.

It doesn’t break. Because the universe,
the science and the math and the faith,
is balanced.
It requires things to be balanced.
Things are better when they are balanced.
The symmetry is beautiful and tragic.
Above and below. Over and under.
A line between good and bad.
It’s muddy.
It’s shallow.
It’s complicated.
It’s tough.
The good is easy. Pleasure. Warmth. New. High.
The bad brings pain.
Hate.
Sad.
Familiar.
Low.
As much as one, the other is there, It can buried.
Pushed.
Burned.
Stabbed.
Choked.
Beat.
Thrown.
Humiliated.
Shamed.
Ignored.
Cut.
Gone.

When it got dark, there was a puppet,
Who fell and found his sanity,
As he climbed, fought, and cut,
And found a way to run,
He ran to every corner,
Ran towards the light.

The closer the light, the larger the shadow,
An animal eats and bows,
Falling, sinking, death by drowning,
A jump to fall asleep,
The puppet froze in place,
And watched for the blur.

There’s a struggle behind
Every mind, a line that holds
A piece from two sides,
A story. A thought. A passion,
To avoid Genocide.

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