Thought.

It is this, and this alone which defines us
That which makes us who we are
Not appearance or occupation,
Not friends or family,
Not circumstance
Not money
Not lies.

It starts as a simple thought,
From thoughts, it is words,
From words, it is a poem,
And the poem makes him a poet.
He is a poet, and his poem, comprised of his words,
That is his thought,
And in effect, he is a poem.

He seeks to write all that there is,
All that there was and will be,
All that occurs in a single moment,
And there is one word which defines it all;
It will be the final thought, the final word in this.

He writes of his thoughts, which are affected by his experiences.
All that we experience becomes a part of us, and we are all that is.
The entire world is but what we know.
What we believe, what we think, what we see;
That becomes Earth.

All of our experiences amount to it.
All of our thoughts.
All of our words, and then it ends.
We live in fear of the end.

At first, we come to realise it...so long, so much time is spent realising.
And then we are shocked. With horror, we deny it. We fight it.
We hate it.
And then we accept it...we come to know it, to embrace it.
We appreciate life because of it.

The end allows us to appreciate what we have.
In the meantime, we have our experiences.
We have our thoughts.
We have words.
...And then it ends.

It was Life.