Who am I?

A terrible figment of God’s imagination;

or as I often tell myself, a mirthful lie?

Perhaps, what was meant to be discarded;

kept aside carelessly and was meant to die?

 

What am I?

A puzzling and perplexing pile of junk and trash;

or a weird collection of impossible thoughts?

Perhaps, a useless and wasteful hand of tarot;

each card with no picture, only stains and dots?

 

Where am I going?

Diving into an unfathomable abyss;

or to a destination of doom, all knowing?

Perhaps, driving down the road to hell;

the shadow of doubt, ever growing?

 

What is the end of what I have?

Is this just a dream, too good to be true;

or sand slipping through my grasp?

Perhaps, there is really nothing that I have;

the rope of hope, just a poisonous asp?

 

What will become of me?

Will I always be searching for what I dream;

or is the door just locked and there is no key?

Perhaps, what I have touched, will become gold;

but by then, all light will be lost to the dark sea