News emerged yesterday lunchtime that a poem had become lodged in the head of a luckless girl at a café in Thornton’s Arcade. Bystanders attempted without success to move her, but in the assessment of the first responder, the line breaks weren’t integral to the structure, so the on-site surgeon was called for, arriving within the hour.
The golden thread had become entangled with the young reader’s pineal gland, leaving her in a precarious position. After dealing with that, the surgeon then had an arduous eight hour task in disentangling the entire sea from her frontal cortex.
We caught the surgeon on her way out of the theatre, and she had this to say: “I am glad for my intensive specialist training in allusion, without which I am sure I wouldn’t have noticed that the protective membrane around the brain was being used as a metaphor for sleep”
We talked to a bystander on the scene. “It’s obvious people these days just don’t know how to use metaphors” they said. “In my day something like this never could have happened. That’s what rhyme was for! Poets these days think they can do without it, but look what happens! Just think, it could have been worse, it could have been a prose poem! I worry for the children”
In an attempt to understand the case more, I wrote this poem, which I am now trapped inside. Please send help