My perception has become steadily amorphous over time,
folding in and out of itself, ballooning
stubbornly through cracks
and allowing glimpses into reality.
If only evil and good could be easily
sketched out, shaken up, and redrawn -
my entire being exists not along lines or boundaries
but rather the washed up sighs and sorrows of somewhere in-between
black and white spaces.
It is in my fickleness that I cannot decide where to mark
my boundaries - it is in your mercy (חֶ֫סֶד)
that you can read
between
the lines.
I am guilty of knowledge
that has gone to waste, and my palms are
etched with psalms and the cries
of brothers and sisters who still strive to define
the lines of good
and evil.
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