I am made of those who never fought, In wars I started, lost and won. Plain turned to whim of liquid thought, I hold all things the black has done. I wait in silence, thin and fair, Through fire and water, earth and air.

Could you? Would you? Should you? Do you want an outcome at all? Schrodinger can reveal the answer when you’re ready.

Common in ladies, almost never in males, distinct inkblot spots, patchwork, head to coat-tails. Internationally lucky and beloved by lots, Don't call creature's name, But the paint-job of blots!

Pulled from a grapple, wrapped in a deer, when you would smell it, all would be clear. It starts with the waters, then next to the rust, solve this riddle and know what I lust.

I can be a canvas for art or a barrier for fears. I hold up the sky for those who dwell inside, Yet I am the very thing that ensures they must hide. I am built by the hand but broken by the heart, Sometimes I am finished before I even start. I divide two worlds with a single line, Providing a border that is yours and is mine.