Rabbits

What's the purpose, you might ask,

Of these words, which now I grasp,

For out of nothing I shall call,

And print these words to help us all.

I intend to falter, oh yes.

I intend, for such is the nature of this test.

To reach for air is naught at all,

When solution yet budds;

When pollution of said air yet blooms.

But, pollution, you ask?

What ever could I mean?

As I have said,

To no such aims am I keen.

Just blind and fruitless I stumble,

As mind and truth remain my salvation.

And after all, what more is there,

Out there;

Within.

Soul and fact are one and the same,

Yet exist apart,

And hand in hand.

Core ingredients of all.

Not necessary the only, my humbleness calls;

My honesty recalls.

But certainly core ingredients, nonetheless.

Are they not?