I'm still on the fence

Frozen between
The future and the past
Failing to grasp the hand
Of a healthy decision
Of innate precision
In deciding between
The fruit of the tree
Of the knowledge of 

good 

and prison
But somehow I've chosen
To differentiate between
Live and love
Between death and blood
To pull the rug
Out from underneath the table
Plated with ancient china
And the firstfruits of Canaan
His empty hand bears nothing
No space to hold
No clay to mould
No frames to places pictures
Of future birthday parties
And backyard adventures
There will never be a
Misterandmissussoandso
So why pretend as if
I want there to be?