It is strange.

Religion and love and loneliness.

You are bound by them, and

Kept isolated behind the bars.

It is strange.

This life.

Short and fast. Long and slow.

You are here

Awake, and still weak.

It is strange.

My presence. Mixed like

Nothing.

I am just,

Another being.

It is strange,

This life again.

Short, but beautiful

In glimpses.

Designed for something beyond us.

It is strange.

This unending vastness.

And this web of strings.

Kept like savage

Beneath time.

It is strange.

This sky.

Blue, and rainy

And bright.

It is strange.

Love.

Not friendly without

Another person.

It is strange.

Time.

Flies upon the ashes,

And dusts all.

It is strange.

Existence.

Formed out

Of manner.

It is strange.

It is strange.

It is strange.

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