Photo by Alfonso Navarro via Unsplash

Is it not strange
How we all live in different sized boxes
Of wood, brick, and concrete
Mashed up metals with squares of clear glass
And call them “Houses”

Is it not strange
How we all tick off tiny boxes
Of imaginary lines
We live inside, within ourselves
We call them “identity”

Is it not strange
How we collect so many boxes
The boundaries become so blurred
Our life is moving, in and out, around and with
So. Many. Boxes.

Is it not strange
How when kittens are born
We line a box with blankets
To contain them
To keep them warm

Is it not strange
How when we expire
The last breath of desire a stale wind
We are put into smaller boxes
So many smaller boxes

Is it not strange
How when we pass on
A box, an urn, a casket
Holds our ashes
People dirt

Is it not strange
How when we’ve left this plane
Our clothes go into boxes
Memories go into boxes
Our lives were only boxes