A metaphor is a soaring bird, wheeling in great arcs beneath the laughing sun that dances in the deep, vibrant, ocean of the sky, where clouds school together, then scatter like puffy, frightened fish;
fish whose golden scales gleam like the ransom of kings seated on towering thrones, glaring down on the hurrying lines of ants they rule, each one a cog in the inexorable machine;
the Juggernaut crawling forward like a hideous beast of war, Ares’ lapdog resting before an inferno of souls, surrounded by the skulls of vanquished heroes, each grinning like a macabre clown, singing a song of ghoulish glee in ghastly harmony: the worst birthday party in the world;
the party stalling, the vain effort of prosperous parents to placate their tempestuous toddler, their obstreperous offspring, by showering him with medals for moot victories and bribes for better behavior;
his face a rainy day of disappointment, until his mother reveals the Great Secret, the trip away from chattering phones and economic conquests, with only the family trinity, together like a hug and a kiss;
his little heart flaming in hope and joy and leaping up like an arrow from the string, like a fiery rocket,
like a soaring bird.
Well, a metaphor is something like that. You get the idea.