We are all

We read of clouds and flowers, Trees and fields and hills of grass. Alas, like pennies spent, our hours reading words That other poets penned and sent; Like freed birds flocking, Knocking at our door. The poor, Who seek to sneak a tiny peek Of timeless, mindless, Truth. The emotional nakedness of humanity. The words of natural beauty are only made to be gifted. We gift them, each to each, in a circular of vernacular That does not come from without. It is the most real Of what we steal from this world of dreams. Seems as though each story, a rememberance of our own. It is the button of pride they touch as much as anything We might disown. For we see a part of ourselves forgotten In each phrase or combination of words that touches us Where we had forgotten to look, but now recall. For we are all; We are all. We are ALL.