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It’s funny how all poems,

Which talk of love, are born

of separation, solitude.

It’s funny. And not.

 

It’s funny, how, when the thing you love,

Is away from you,

do you really come to realise,

How much you love it.

It’s funny. And not.

 

It’s funny how short life is,

And still, despite the fact,

We act as infinite.

All the time in the world!

It’s funny. And not.

 

It’s funny, how I do what I want not,

And continue to do so,

In the name of society, culture, sense.

The shackles I put on me.

It’s funny. And not.

 

It’s funny how clear things are,

And still we run in mazes,

Created, of course, by the brilliant minds

That run us. Yours and mine.

Nothing matters. Not really.

And still, we walk blind.

It’s funny. And not.