What is out there?
…that colors my inner-being at will,
…that sometimes tries to take my hand,
…that sometimes drags me across an endless stretch of rusty scabbards.

…that waits in the darkness for me to falter,
…that thinks my will is but a matter of time,
…that wonders at the pain I willingly endure to reach the end.

What IS it out there?
…that is so patient,
…as to sleep while I run,
…to laugh as I cry,
…to patiently wait with outstretched hand
…as my motion slows to a skeptical crawl
…as I wait to find out
…what THEY want me to believe is out there.

Might what’s out there be the effort of some fascist trying to play God?