If I am long, your legs might ache, Know my turns or your life’s at stake. My form can be straight or a circle instead, To loop you all the way back to my head. My natural views may put you in awe. When I become steep, your breath I may draw.

I left no breath, no sound, no cry, Yet linger still where eons lie. Not born of ink, yet shaped in lore, pressed deep beneath the rocky floor. No mind recalls the form I cast, Yet stone remembers what could not last.

I appear in a bet, but I am not a guarantee. You might see me in the yard.

I have a bed, but never sleep; I have a head, but never weep; I have a mouth, but never talk; I often run, but cannot walk.

I might be a defect, I might be to blame or a line on the Earth, but the word is the same. What am I?