Words are strange things really. We all have them within us and for some of us they cannot be kept inside our thoughts. They seek to leach out in many forms. For me that form is prose or poetry. Or at least that is my interpretation of it. I was always under the impression that travel experiences in other places was the key to successful composition; giving a writer a better depth of understanding. But as I grow older I realise I was wrong. We need do nothing and within an average lifetime the whole world will by some cosmic default pass us by. In even the smallest group or collective, no matter the location, race or belief, emotions and achievements are similar. The dawn sun rises and sets and we all mature and grow under its benevolent gaze. It is the one great truth of humanity; we are all equal, sometimes flawed, but in spirit such beautiful creatures.