Some men collect metaphors,
Others a girl’s stiletto
(some literally so).
Some collect doors
That open onto corridors,
And girl’s faces (so romantic by starlight)
For the night
Is full of metaphor.
Some collect stamps
Under street lamps
But the stamps
Are ultimately the same
For they all play the game
Of metaphor
He speaks in metaphors
Of doors
That with reluctance open
And flowers, their stems broken
By the passionate gale
That leaves pale
Ghosts behind.
In his mind
He sees
The bees
Sup from the flower’s heart.
The rain start
To fall
And summer joys, turn to gall.
The ice in my heart
causes tears to start.
Sometimes the lark doth sing
bringing thoughts of spring.
Flashes of light
In the darkeness of night.
The candle flickers
As Lucifer snickers.
The fire is piled high with coal
But can not unfreeze my soul.
K Morris - Poet 