directly at the sun

there are no more metaphors
it is what it is
it has always been that way
but i couldn’t really see
no more soothing loving touches
like the caressing of a wave
you are gone in body now
in heart you were never here
i’m a creature who loved the dark
my metaphor box is empty now
perhaps just a dried mosquito wing inside blown in from the mountains
no more dancing gracefully like the darling swan nor can i really say that my wings have been completely clipped
every now and again when my brain breaks free
some grungy renagade metaphor breaks free and i fall into my norm
but yes the metaphors divorced me cold got up and walked away
they drifted toward a London fog
never seeing them again
in my life now a rose by any other name can be a rocking chair
driven like the snow
drives in the month of June
the end of my winding road
seems to not appear
but with Papa Hemingway by my side death might play peekaboo
at midnight’s xylophonic stroke
but until then my body bare will lay in suspended state supine and starring directly at the sun

12 thoughts on “directly at the sun

  1. Let’s see. In your last post, I mistook your masked owl for cat woman. So the owl and the pussycat:

    The Muse and the Metaphor went to sea
    In a beautiful pea-green boat
    They took some honey and plenty of money
    Wrapped up in a five-pound note
    The Muse looked up to the stars above
    And sang to a small guitar
    “O lovely Metaphor! O Metaphor, my love
    What a beautiful Metaphor you are
    You are
    You are!
    What a beautiful Metaphor you are.”

    Liked by 2 people

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