Metaphors

Just after the night we dream.
All our metaphors come back,
Sleep stuff hid below pillows.
The pillows are our metaphors
For the small things we forget
During sleep, on the wayside.
They are fluffy swan feathers
And we fight they fill our air.

We argue one side or another
Depending where we happen.
We had happened in our birth.
Later we would change sides,
Then we made some happen,
A happenstance to our wives,
Who are sleeping metaphors
Directly focussed on a ceiling.

We run out of our metaphors
When we are fixedly focussed
On a celiling of empty breeze,
And arguments come to close
On other side, beyond a glass.
That is when eyes turn pearls
In a final burst of metaphors.

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