My thoughts are like this forest,
dense and stunted undergrowth.
Littered, muddy and layered,
interspersed with sparse, magnificent columns,
ideas branched and varied,
stretched toward every available source,
seeking energy to reach farther still, to fill this space.
My thoughts are ever-growing, but encroached upon
by society, contaminants, pollution,
those seeking to harvest for their gain.
Thoughts, in a silent flow, sweet and adhesive as sap.
Those oldest thoughts, like childhood illusions, fallen, in decay,
nourishing upstart notions, more flexible than their predecessors;
young sapling thoughts, in constant competition, struggling to root.
My thoughts are like this forest, all random occurrence and atmosphere,
whereas yours are a landscape
of tight-trimmed turf, well-mannered rivulets,
merely decorative, incapable of sustaining a population of ideas,
but producing, nonetheless, a sweet-sounding babble.
Your well-tended plots of thought, selective specimen ideas
- weeded, pruned, and watered -
have symmetry and hybrid pedigree
but no sustainability.

01/30/2006

Author's Note: Oh, but I love an extended metaphor.

Posted on 01/31/2006
Copyright © 2026 Lacy D Phillips