A strange imagination, of a diverse creation
lead my thoughts to anomalous direction.
With minute differences, we all skeletons
eating, laughing, moving, are so genuine.
Race, colour becomes so meaningless.
The X-ray of flesh is so useless.
As in autumn, like all those
withered leafless trees, when the wind blows
But worthy enough with the essence.
Seed. That's enough for their inheritance.
Anonymous Rose
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/we-all-are-skeletons/
