Poetry is all around us,
If you stop to smell the roses, that is.
For even things like the humble ant,
Or the migrant bird,
Can be put to pleonastic word.
A tree becomes a arborous acropolis,
Or the field a verdant crowd,
Of silently swaying grounds.
The night becomes a vast expanse,
Of luminous jeweled amethyst,
Or even poetry itself,
A jumble of loquacious vocable.
Words become strings of phonetic glyphs,
And sentences a chain of grammar and vocabulary bits.
Time becomes a countdown to death,
And space, time’s relative distance.
For language is such a device,
That for every word there is a better one.
So when it comes to pleonastic poetry,
Utilize your Brobdingnagian vocabulary,
Until it’s expressly overdone.