What is it?
Is it what it was,
Or is it what it is?
I'll never know what this new thing was,
But what it is...
What it is, is not unimportant,
No, it's quite important,
To me.
For I am the curious one,
And it is certainly a curious object,
Gazed upon by curious eyes such as mine.
Is it special?
Does it mean something?
Is it something?
It is strange,
Or perhaps I am strange,
For I cannot tell what it was or is or will ever be.
Is it real?
Am I crazy?
Perhaps the world is crazy,
after all, this object is a part of the world.
Yes, the world has gone mad,
This object with it.
I'm sane.
Although, this argument is inane,
Why do I pain myself with this bane of a train of thought?
Why can't I drop it?
I was always taught to leave well alone,
But I didn't.
Instead I carried on, wondering, pondering, thinking hard,
About what this strange object is.
Or was.
Or what it could ever be.