Living with Metaphors

How do you live with metaphors? I mean really live with them and not just notice them now and again in the hallowed halls of academic discourse. How can you live provisionally, as if something were true when you have no mathematical confidence or formulas to put you to bed at night? I wish i could find comfort in fundamentalist blankets but these are now drafty and threadbare. I wish i had one eye, and one hand - maybe that's why people used to chop hands off and gouge eyes. Metaphors leak over time when I want water tight vacuums, they bled and sometimes die when i want healthy eterenal truths to ponder. Metaphors need words when I just want to play football and learn to paint. Metaphor can't close the door to doubt and can't silence the critic, the mocker. Metaphors whisper seductively when all I want is a loudspeaker and a text book. Metaphors contort and derrange reality when I need a mirror most of all or a map and compass.

But metaphors need friends to live when formulaes just need stone and maybe that's the point.

Shadows

a crow cries for lack of glinting silver treasures,
incased in shadows which are half of me,
and threaten to follow and overtake,
behind closed private shutters.

what i hate most clings most tenaciously,
unweathered by hope or guilt,
imperviously pecking open sores,
until twilight and shadow relieve.