the line between

the mystique held once
in this thing that still is desired,
fades---
be it a career
wanted, dreamed of, sought after with
such energy & glory
when one was younger,
be it an individual whose
then-shocking beauty,
whose then-chiseled
handsome hunkness,
whose then-passion seemed to
stir,
be it a mission that one
secretly felt that they held inside
(one that might place them on the
map with those already defined as
“delusional”),
be it a romantic ideal of a future,
a utopia, a brother/sisterhood, a
place where all the violence would
finally stop,
be whatever one likes,
be it whatever one can muster,
like the candle going down to its
last blob of wax, now spilling hot
across the surface of the table on
which it sits,
it all fizzles, it all
turns cold & leaves a hardened
stain
when the flame
extinguishes.

the line between those who do not
relight & those that pour on the gas,
the line between those who walk
out into the riot street with their
exhausted hands up (believing that
the shots will stop & that they’ll be
spared) & those that grip a Molotov
in their hands & cast out that first
vital punch into a wondrous walk
of newness again,
this may be a line that extends higher
than the Great Wall itself, build by one
human for the sake of one human’s
demise,
but it is a line drawn by that very same
hand &
if one cannot be forced to draw it
then…