What

Is out there that colors my soul at will,
sometimes takes my hand,
other times drags me across
an endless stretch of rusted foils?

What

Waits in the darkness for me to falter,
thinks my will is but a matter of time,
wonders at the pain and suffering I'll willingly endure

to reach the end?

What

Remains so patient,
as to sleep while I run,
laugh as I cry,
tolerantly wait with outstretched hand
as my motion slows,
conceding to skeptical crawl,
expecting to find out

what they want me to believe is out there?

What if

The me of you
is the you of me,

living the grand scheme of creation,

that epitome of embodiment?