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Poem

What I find pointless are some words we speak
Like isotope, calamity and wretch
Wandering through a meadow of steel
I see the cold field outstretch.
And upon the bottom of the left side’s right
The top begins to bend
A sight so ghastly, grisly and pure
That no one could portend

When the clock tics slowly to 25 o’clock
When the seas’ waves crash no more
Against the November rainy sky
The ground will hit the floor
And resound around, around and around
‘Til there is no sound in the dell
And the spiky clouds swell high in to the sky
Through the heart of the pimpernel

So the reason without scorn 
And the thought without a glance
To the occasion, rise to meet the ire
Expressing words that are absurd
They interrupt the blubbered bird
To the point where it begins to sound dire

But don’t you fret or worry 
for the answer you will find
is in the meaning of the words left yet to speak
And if less is to the point then the point is to the less
And the very meaning changes, oh mystique!

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