We Are The Strange

Note to reader(s); if you have strong religious views, please be aware that this poem did not intend on offending your personal beliefs. This poem was specifically written out of pure influence from other people’s interpretations. This is only just a mere view. Thank you.

We are the strange, nothing superior, nothing ordinary,
Nothing made, nothing said.

Come, come to the empty island,
A mask and two hands, one holding the handle to the mask.
An angel stands before you,
A name if you wish; Satan.
But why is Satan an angel?
He is a Fallen Angel.

Where do you stand?
In the centre of a black universe,
Beneath you is grass and flowers,
The essence of life.
With one wave of a hand,
More life sprouts from the ground majestically,
But how does one with such legends do something
so beautiful?

Questioned, yet it comes naturally,
…Like other curious things.

Hungry for thought, you pick your fruit,
From which fall into your hands like gifts from above, filling your hands,
Yet you only drop the rest for only one, and eat
a fragment of your merits.

Eat for now, and listen to the whispering voices
That speak from one magnificent tongue.
With another wave of a hand,
Satan creates a sand castle, empty and perfect.
Offering with a bland tone, his hand is open
with 3 spheres of clay.

You can make some people.

I shall make the King and Queen,
I’ll make the soldiers,
I’ll make the people.

Each clay figurine is placed like puzzle pieces
on the masterpiece.
There is a village, a forest,
Farm land,

We see the sky,
We see the land,
We see the water,
And we wonder; Are we the only ones?
Now we will give them life.

The clay animates, life.
They had thinking minds,
Feeling hearts,
Speaking mouths,
And reaching hands.

A final touch, and you give them livestock.
The clay figures fight for it, pulling feverishly
at the horns of a cow.

I find you humans quite interesting…
Even though you are a worthless, greedy lot.

Satan’s features morph into a brash frown,
Empty eyes watching the humans fight,
Push and shove for the livestock,

How annoying that sound is.

The mask hardens, sharpens the edges
Spreading cancerously,
Divots and crevasses scar the soft porcelain whiteness,
And with one hand
He destroys the clay crowd,
A rotting brown mush, embedded.


The rotting mush morphs into coffins
with a click of Satan’s fingers.

What fascinations there are in this planet…
Strange mortals with… curious customs.
We’ll have storm now…
And an earthquake if you like.
You must stand out of sight,
Out of danger.

Clay figures mourn the dead
While Satan raises his hand,
Creating bolts of lighting,
Withering the land with nature.

With a careful ear among the orchestra of growls
and lightning,
You can hear the screams and wails of the clay people,
Faces morphed into distraught as they flee and run
Their world splits in half by a violent zigzag,
Spreading itself over the circumference of land,
Clay children are killed by the lightning bolts
While other clay people fall into the gaping
mouth of the zigzag,
Swallowing them into darkness.

The King stands outside his crumbling castle
Crying out and yelling at Satan,
Yet no merciful hands let him be
The King is struck and turned into mush,
Splattered on his own castle walls.

What was their paradise fell between
the mouth of the zigzag,
No longer existing as the final
bodies are swallowed.

I can do no wrong…
For I do not know what it is…

Another wave of his hand,
The brown stain on the ground
turns into grass and beautiful flowers once more
where Paradise once lay.

Nevermind them,
People are of no value.
We could make more some time,
If we need them.

The mask merges into a skull, watching you
blankly, yet harmless and no threat.
You find yourself running through that door
without looking back.

Life itself is only a vision,
A dream of nothing that exists
in an empty space,
And you, you are nothing but a


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