The Point

Try to unearth, explore
The water-clock secrets of the moths.
If really, they recreate the womb
Or merely, they masquerade their amusement.

Like the cruellest home video
There is deadness behind the laughter,
And it was Beckett who
Wrote that nothing is funnier than
Man’s unhappiness. It grows on us like moss,
This search for secrets.

Unending shelves of spines,
And Shakespeare, volume one, employed as makeshift pillow,
Have not so far revealed why the viola swells
And inflates the unrequited.
We’re left to search the rain-soaked cobbles
Looking with absent eyes
For the clear line,
The answer,
The point.

What an awesome poem John,
The imagery is beautiful and the cleverness of the poem, does not detract from it, which I find can sometimes be the case.
I like the unusual length and shape of the piece and the snippets of alliteration, and the fact you have captured the sombre mood which is your point throughout.

Thank you I really enjoyed reading this, would love to hear it performed.

powerhouse