Alien life, in this skin, in these bones.
In what world do I make sense?
I am alive only in trees,
Only in this:
the pages of my dreams.
Others, prefer a shell,
A visitation of emptiness.
I cannot belong, to their ranks
of hopeless wanderings through
fields of things –
Living was just not made for me.
I breathe an air, crystal and blue,
Light, the particles, of me and you.
I stop to give up,
I stop to give in,
I continue, to fly,
in ships that no one else can see.
I am, not just, but in part,
An alien life form,
Looking OUT, looking UP.



adjective \ˈā-lē-ən, ˈāl-yən\
belonging to another

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