The real you

It is never a start or an end

but is present 

like air, or the earth,

so whole and invisible,

so much, yet so little

of what we 

perceive as real.

It never really is an intention

nor a thought,

or even a wish 

in the slightest.

But creeps up on you

while you are distracted

pursuing an alternate truth.

Harsh, maybe, but is also

a mirror,

of what cannot be sought

or seen,

for where indeed 

do you draw

a line, between yourself

and the enemy?