Poetry comes from within;
It has no creed or color,
It ages but never grows old

It captures the hearts and minds
Of our forebears, and our children,
And for a while at least, of ourselves

We can love it, embracing it as a friend,
Or loath it like our worst enemy,
Or dismiss it completely from our thoughts

But once a poem has been born,
It takes on a life of its own
And like as not, it will outlive us all.