Take me as a wordplayer.
Although some would say
that it’s a fools gold; scoffing at its mere mention, abhorring its labor and luxuriant form. Stating that’s it’s simply not the norm to lust for the written word. Counting it absurd to fancy it’s storied origins, unreservedly relish the unrivaled beauty of its captivating expression.
As they say, one man’s rubbish is another’s man’s treasure; and one man’s treasure is another’s man’s rubbish. So is it justified to measure another’s treasure by way of one’s own rubbish? Or size up another’s rubbish by means of their own treasure? It seems to be a pointless endeavor and a hapless game of fools.
Writers Digest, Poetic Asides
2016 April PAD poem-a-day challenge