What I Find Pointless

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!