It happens every day
When you have a poet’s mind,
You’ll see a word in everything
No matter what you find.
Patches in a balding lawn
Will form a sign of age,
Of moments wasted, ticking clocks
And a life to leave the stage
A line of four smart gentlemen
In regimental grey,
Once had me staring quite in awe
Till they quacked and flew away.
A field becomes an ocean,
A cup becomes a soul,
A pen becomes a person,
And an ache becomes a hole
My world is now a metaphor,
My mind a simile,
My heart a hidden meaning,
But my poetry is me.
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