Philosophical

Piecewise, the bit by bit encapsulation of splendor 
in the simplicity of one’s being; 
Through the teardrop glazed window of my heart; 
I gaze at the hazy vision: 
The quintessence of apathy, the blizzard that is my soul and me 
And I ponder on the soul Proprietor, the owner of his visage? 
Wondrously I’ll wonder about the need to be 
And walk a straight rope and knot it around this world 
This is not me… could it be? 
Even after the ends of earth become atoms and I the bond 
The question still be: What is this, “Me”?

"You"