The Strangers Poem by Ebba Poole

Loss. A strange concept.
In order to lose something, don't we
Have to have something?
Have to know it?
What do we have that isn't ours?

We are all made up of threads-
Spools and spools,
Dozens of different colours.
Threading. And forming. And tangling.
And they are all broken on a whim.

Death makes them brittle
(These bonds)
Cruel as he is.
His and his friends:
The Wraiths.

Tumbling- twisting- jumbling
Jealousy, anger, grief, hate-
Doubt. Sending you-
Spinning.
For what do we have?

(A fleeting glimpse of a memory)

Do we really know ourselves?
For what is there to have?
-if we will lose.
What is there to lose?
-if we never have.

Are you nervous yet?
Don't be.
It'll pass...

Names.
We all have our names.
They cannot be taken from us.
And yet. While
They are thrown around
They are who we make up
Who we are
This whole.

Every dilapidated, delusional mess.
It defines the 'self'.
This 'self', that makes up this jumbled spool.

But doesn't everyone have something?
Don't they have their problems?
Their thoughts?
Their hopes?
Their feelings?

How does one lose that?
How can something take that?

Loss. A strange concept.