The desperate and drowning

The desperate and drowning do err
when they mistake the splinter
in their own eye for a straw
upon which they may float

but if you were to choose
between the interior and the interval
of the divided green grass
in the back of your own garden,
with grasshoppers and butterflies
juggling with your thoughts,
the golden sky turning silver
from the spring rain-just after

perhaps for them then
you would find the compassion
to understand how such fear
may drive them to hopeless lengths

in a world where you finally
may find someone whom understands
the narrow line between love and hate,
the colorful spot of life, or the despair and death,
and they too leave you to a life
written in the unknown words
of paradise, earth, in between, or hell.