“Life is like a box of metaphors”

What I want to know is
what asshole
first introduced poets
to phoenixes?
Or butterflies,
for that matter
any bit of symbolism
that spoke with such resound
and still today
we find ourselves trapped
in meaningless metaphor
simile resented
as we’ve heard it all
let me guess…
a “thousand” times?
Must the moon always shine
in lovers’ piercing eyes
as cicadas sing of ragdoll girls
in cages
or on shelves?
Has Edgar damned his raven
incapable of bearing good tidings?
Perhaps the bird will shed its dark wings,
be reborn of some significant dust
and find its inner strength
in a lyrical display of redundancy
I’m sure that I’ve never
read that before.

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.


2 thoughts on ““Life is like a box of metaphors”

  1. Ah yes, the amateur mistake: falling victim to metaphoric cliche, and idiomatic generalization. The phoenix rises, angels fall, love is fragile, hands reach and never grasp, girls are flowers in blossom, everything is a masquerade, and they think they are poets.
    It makes me wonder if they’ve ever felt a thing. Shakespeare is probably the culprit.

    Excellent read. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

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