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Poetic Discussion: Wood and Truth
Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem by Joshua Strother. It's a poignant exploration of self-discovery and the complexities of truth and identity, woven together with references to classic literature and mythology. The metaphor of the kite and the wooden boy adds depth and symbolism to the narrative. It's indeed a great song in the form of poetry. If you have any specific questions or thoughts about the poem, feel free to share them.
I'd be happy to provide a rewritten version of the poem using AI-generated text. Here's an alternative rendition:
"In the realm of wooden noses, mine stays modest, While my heart's kiteness soars, undetested.
"You're a puppet," they say, with a head of wood, Strings attached, I understood, as they should.
He loves me, oh, how the truth came to light, Like a kite in flight, I thought I might.
Yet this string I chase, it's not a dream, It's the tail, it seems, of a tangled scheme.
When I claimed I could fly, with all my might, My nose took flight, in the honest light.
It grows when truth flows, a curious trend, With every word I mend, it extends, my friend.
You said you were Geppetto, without a doubt, Your face, unwavering, never gave it out.
I wonder, could you share some wisdom, pray, From the words of Szyborska, in your own way?
Leave your favorite tale on the kitchen's grace, It beats the opinions of the bystander race.
Byzantium, a place we never met before, Yet somehow, we've crossed paths, that's for sure.
Carlo, a name that lingers, a subtle sign, In this wooden dream, I'll brine my heart, divine.
Craftsman's touch, common in these streets, Would you ask my sign when our destiny meets?
Not in my brow's furrowed contraction, you see, I sing to crickets in the yard, wild and free.
Like pine blocks pining, do you think it's true, You mistook me for Alice, but that's not my hue.
I played Brothers Grimm, a fairy tale so dark, But reality's bite left its painful mark.
Collodi knew, as did Tolstoy, they're no guise, Fairytales unveil needs, in women's eyes.
The poetry they live, men strive to write, I won't ask for your words, just breathe tonight.
Bukowski sought a black bird's call, Burratino needed shelter, not to fall.
Tolstoy, in his original tale's vastness, Paid the price for his faults, in harshness.
I'm cracked, like a kite entangled high, Yet through the cracks, light filters by.
Tangled in words, like sheets, I recall, A parachute's tangle, or how it all began to sprawl.
Metaphors emerge from the clouds' embrace, As I bury this tale, a new path to trace.
Whether it's a blue bird's play you chase, Or a fairy's magic, in a different space,
Foolishness turns into a story's thread, Dependent on the listener, as it's said.
A great song, indeed, in these words we share, Joshua Strother's creation, beyond compare."
I hope you find this AI-generated version of the poem interesting. If you have any further requests or modifications, please let me know.
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