There’s a Fine, Fine Line

Alright, I’ve got three new poems for you on a theme. You’ve probably heard the phrase “there’s a fine line between love and hate”, right? Well, I spent part of yesterday thinking on it. Is there such a line? Is it hard to distinguish? Is it good or bad? I don’t think I’ve completely answered those questions in my own mind, but below are some of the fruits of my initial thinking.

You are the razor’s edge
You are the razor’s edge.
You are the side of the cliff.
You are the threshold.
And you are the high wire.

The dividing line is there.
But only when one looks closely–
Truly examines the subject–
Will he find it and know it.

I have never noticed the passing over.
So intent on the object in my sight,
I don’t look down to see
Where the one ends, the other begins.

I awake from the stupor too late,
Not recognizing my surroundings–
Unsure of when I traded comfort and bliss
For self-inflicted misery and woe.

The climes were not so different;
Nor was there a change in view;
Perhaps these rose-tinted frames block out
Those subtleties that passion causes to arise.

I stumble and lose my balance,
And find myself on the outside looking in.
I fall, but I don’t think of the ground–
Only what I’ve been cut out from.

The Thinnest Line
In thinking too much, we cannot understand.
In sensing too much, we cease to feel.
In seeing too much, we are blind.
In loving too much, we hate.

A Passion High
‘Tween love and hate, there is a line,
Not thin, but broad, and well-defined.
It’s clear to see in retrospect
How these two sides relate, connect.

You stumbled here all in a daze–
Then lost in love, amidst the maze.
Unseen by you, the path not straight
You’ve traveled here, from love to hate.

Although the road was indirect,
You should have known they’d intersect.
Drop this pretense of unknowing
The fruit of seeds you were sowing.

Love and passion walk hand in hand
So, too, does hate, albeit unplanned.
Simple shift, one to the other;
Effortless to hate the lover.

But you designed your temptation–
You foreknew its end: privation.
A passion high, but unreturned:
A wasted gift, a lover spurned.

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