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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

What Is Ours

What travels around in me,
comes out as me.
A door that permits one set of bones,
one size nose,
and hair the color of brown leaves.
In someone else a window
permits one set of eyes
tinged with green,
one great gesture on the sill,
and a leap in the air.

Whatever comes out
determined by doors,
by windows,
by cracks in the wall
where time piled up its stones.
I suspect all of us are exactly the same.
Like drops of water
draining the same ocean.
Falling from the same storm.
Like voices with the same ring
accept for the whistle,
the guitar,
the thorax of the instrument.

Everything inside the same
so much so,
that every man, woman and child
shares the same secret in themselves,
they are the companion of each other.
Which cautions,
that an artist, a sportsman,
dictator or redeemer,
are what was fashioned
by doors and windows,
the cracks inside destiny,
but inside,
is me and you and ours.

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