Regarding Poetry and Prose

(Just for laughs)

When words fatigue,
growing tired, almost droopy,
like crayons melting in sun,
they conform to shapes,
seeping into crevasses
shielded from convention
where emotion and imagination,
like virgin earth, are
waiting for ox and plow;

A giant sunflower seed,
shelled, sitting
like a world upon tongue;
or an apple core tossed
outside a car window;
with seeds taking root
as soon as apple hits dirt;

In the rear view mirror,
A linear grove
foraging surreal;
Reproducing faster than you drive;
Trees popping to maturity
as earth, weed, and grass flies
and splits for lunging instant trunks;
Apple trees lining the highway
on both sides;
overgrown with giant fruit;
glowing red tops,
golden yellow streaks,
green speckles;
giant globes falling in car’s way
making you stop, get out,
momentarily awe, before
taking inevitable delicious bites.

Contrarily, when words
are consciously wakeful;
firmly, chiseled;
cemented formal facts,
uniformly, starched, and pressed,
You might toss an apple core
out on that highway,
look into rear view mirrors
to see bright red flashing lights;

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