My Friend, What Are You?

My friend. May I question you?

You have no eyes, yet have seen the world as many. You have no muscles, yet have more strength than I. You have no talent, yet can paint the walls in a masterpiece. You have no ears, yet listen as no one else will. You have a mouth, yet can do nothing more than shout in my mind as you press against my ear. My dear friend: What are you? As you see again an aspect of this world, I ask you. As your strength remains as mine collapses, I inquire you. As you paint these walls a final shade of your trademark rosso*, I plead of you. As you explain what I cannot in your deafening, solitary tone, demanding I am of an answer. What, my friend, are you?

And in the seconds of your echoed thoughts, I hear past your piercing teeth and rancid breath. I recognize, before I drop into a darkness deeper than your coat and a world firmer than your steel-cladded armor, the answer.

Can anyone else perceive your identity?