Do lines in a poem live a strange life?
They gossip like neighbours about neighbours they like
And fancy going around in a literary guise
Mumbling, ‘I want to look wise’.
They can be anorexic, obese, and evenly toned
Hobble, mumble, tumble, and grumble
Or just have days when the mind is stoned
They love their perch or remain humble.
Lines in a poem travel to every shape and shade
Running, walking, and sometimes crawling
Jumping off cliffs, diving, ready to wade
Calling, whistling, howling, or bawling…
Lines in a poem live our lives
Waltzing through every hue
Playing with guns and roses and knives
And this is why they seem so true.
26 April 2016