A Ball in Your Court

There are at least seven metaphors in the headline of today’s Sunday Paper and well over 72 in thishere first sentence, which, at the current rate of accumulation, won’t need meta-me to usher today’s diary-entry beneath, between, and behind Sunday’s jumble:

If not mired in meaning,
stripped of specific significance,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . out of bounds
beyond interpretation.
The extent to which the ball in
question can bounce
is deflated in substance,
relayed from implication to inference.
No wonder the meaning of a dream confounds.
It is what it is in words.
But what it was was what it was.
Cellular communication,
telepathic,
biochemical and electromagnetic.

Take words to codify what’s self-evident, but know that your declaration’s as dead as the paper it’s written on. (That’s a simile following an imperative punctuated with a metaphor for something that’s supposed to be profound.)

Profundity punctured by its depth of penetration.

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