Poetry is like a small blue
and green striped ball suspended in the air
on a string and behind it, on a
black wall, hangs an old mirror
with an embroidered frame,
and those who look at it stop
Some awe and look at it from every angle
with others scratch their head
then move on.
But for the few that stop and awe, there is a
reward, for they are not ignorant
and imagining some lunatic created
this work of art, but a genius,
because those that looked in
the mirror saw that the other
side of the ball was plaid, not striped.
hitalot879
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Poetry
CATEGORY
life
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