A poet once wrote about the lives of clouds;
From their lifeless point of view.
And are such notions merely illusory?
Can these feelings ever be true?
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He thought that clouds watched men come and go on Earth;
Floating there, they watch the moon and seas.
Can it be that such things, quite inanimate,
Interact in such ways as they please?
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Does a paperweight become neurotic when it’s weighing nothing down?
Does a guitar cringe when it is out of tune, does it really know?
Does a damp towel consider it has been abused, when left in a heap on the floor?
It all seems quite capricious, how far do these ideas go?
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When scissors are closed in a silent room, do they whisper to themselves?
Can a snow-globe get dizzy when shaken again and again?
Does the forgotten doll on a dusty shelf pine for those long gone hugs?
Does a loosened rock quake with the sound of the coming rain?
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Does a staple remover ever tire of its use, of continually undoing the done?
Does the bursting balloon know in that instant that all past admiration is blown?
Does a doorknob ever get giddy, being twisted back and forth?
Do steps become proud of their age, with worn dips shaping their stone?
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Does a sleeping pill ever feel sad that it has to be used at all?
Can the horse on a Merry-Go-Round ever feel the centrifugal force?
Does a toothbrush quietly wince and groan when teeth are brushed too hard?
Does an apple left to rot in the grass ever feel remorse?
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Does a notepad ever wonder what will be written next?
Does the silver dome of a cooking pot really hate the heat?
Does a toothpick feel unfulfilled when it breaks while doing its job?
Can a bed really blush when a child wets its sheet?
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Does a cup ever have a preference about being filled with coffee or tea?
Does a fridge ever feel bilious when food has gone off in there?
Does an alarm clock ever get angry when its owner goes back to sleep?
Does a chess-piece sigh with annoyance when placed on a threatened square?
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Such fanciful ideas are only born by those conjuring with pen and wit.
A nonsense, yes; but for a poet, this may well be the fashion.
Placing such feelings, where they are rarely seen to fit,
Imbues nonsense with a passion.