I wonder sometimes
More often than I should
About the weight of the twine
In the division of evil and good
It’s such a thin line and almost a crime
To have a path so narrow?

How a veer so slight
Can replace planted feet
With hands gripped tight?
Yet He keeps His eye on the sparrow?

At this point enters the confusion
Is the line itself the proverbial path?
If that be so can one act of wrath
Cause it snap?
Or was its solidity always an illusion?

The diffusion of this seeming conundrum
Poses prophecies of purpose profusion.
It appears that I hear that both are important,
And matter far past my cranial distortion?

Yet the beating organ that is tucked deep in the basement
Generating life to the rest of this house,
Is the answer to the perplexing questions.
Yet it is In the attic gathering dust on the encasement?

so I guess the explanation
Of “many are called but few are chosen”
And “it takes more than one to lead a nation”
Guard the doorways with a staccato open and closing?

So this path that we speak with hurdles and potholes
Too high and too deep to fathom
Should stand here afraid of the not yet encountered souls
And step blindly forgetting that it has them?

I see light at my feet which seems to guide
My stride should willingly follow
But I wonder at times
More often than I should
Why can I not fly when I feel so hollow?