Who’s There?
Who’s there? Who is there? Who is There?
It’s a three-pronged question.
It starts small.
Who comes in?
Are we alone?
Is someone coming?
But it balloons, like an ever widening gyre –
Who is there?
Are we alone in the universe?
Who is there?
Who’s there?
And who am I?
Who is here?
Is it – well, it calls all of it into question, doesn’t it? Who’s there?
When the night is dark
And you can barely understand where
Your own hand is
It blends seamlessly into the darkness
The boundaries blurring
Me, Hand, Darkness
We’re all one out here
I only know that I’m here
Because I can feel me
This foot on the ground
This knee against that rough fabric
Whenever I bend it.
I can feel my neck when the wind
Blows against it.
I place my hand on metal
And it is my hand
Metal, cold. Hand, warm.
But if I leave it there long enough
The one will start to blend into the other
And what was warm will get colder
And what was cold will get warmer.
What is hand now and what is metal?
The eyes search for edges in the blackness.
This is how we will know a thing
By its boundaries.
I know my heart when I place my hand on my chest and feel it pulse.
I recognize my mind when it runs into something unknown and steps
Around its edges.
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The Hamlet Project 
*applauds*
Bows and gives thanks.