i found an ancient tome today,
of far more ancient poetry.
the book of poems, itself,
was twice as old as i will live to be.

each entry was anonymous
and fashioned in a form of rhyme
uncommon unto most of us;
tho passions then, unchanged with time

were much the same as now, it seems.
the love and loss, the joy or rage
at life's debris, the longing, hopes and dreams
recorded on the page;

so much the same, that thought of time
collapsed, - unneeded vanity -.
suffice this evidence in rhyme,
how seamless our humanity.