! The Secret, Treasured World Of Metaphor

True, I can rhyme – endwords, and inner too;
fangle fine assonance, like thought made new;
march to a metre –regular in tread
or cunningly disjointed – silken, the thread
then sharply pulled, to wake the reader’s ear;
rhythms, I can dance with a magic, laughing twirl;
play like the ringlets of poetic curls;

but metaphor – ah, there’s the sadness in my play:
that golden box, its gleaming lid all joy,
all mystery… if I only had the key
to throw it open, cave with dark velvet lined,
shimmering with jewels from rare and secret mines,
flashing with colours never man had seen,
thrown together as words have never been –
making new language out of words grown old,
sounding new sounds of tales that are not yet told..

oh that I had the gift of metaphor –
that showering of gold from a land unknown heretofore…

by Michael Shepherd

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