Strangers
Are clouding
What was left.
Clinging scraps
Of mind.
No longer
One.
But shared.
Open time.
For those
Who can find
The way
In.
Then it Started
A poem a day for a year, from my head to here
Strangers
Are clouding
What was left.
Clinging scraps
Of mind.
No longer
One.
But shared.
Open time.
For those
Who can find
The way
In.
Then it Started 
Your poem reminds me of the blogosphere–in a good way I think. Thanks.
That makes a lot of sense! Perhaps a subconscious influence