Colin F. Jones

WHAT IS THE POINT?

Taught by too many teachers, by incidents and war,
One sinks inside oneself, asking “what can it all be for?”
So many rules and breaches, rhetoric and biased views;
So many ambitious people and captivating news.
So much deceit and glibness; so many who are right;
So many so unable to see the moon at night.
Constant finger pointing by me and you at me,
None see the ship they sail in due to the changing sea.
All seeking recognition for the words that they write;
Some murmuring from the soul some irrelevant and trite.
Seeking reasons for existence; trying to justify their lives,
Bees ever seeking pollen always returning to their hives.
What is the real point – for even my love of thee
Will wither into emptiness when death devours me.

Some camouflage by mocking; some with pleasantries,
Some criticize to hide themselves; and in revelries.
Some are great achievers reforming wood and stone,
But always like the basest folk they are born and die alone.
What is the point, I ask myself, why do I write absurds,
Knowing that few understand the meaning of my words.
Why do I long for heaven when I know there is no hell,
That one cannot envisage tolling when there isn’t any bell?
Why do people seek to blame other people for their rage,
Follow leaders they don’t like; live in their own made cage.
Why, oh why, the question, that we never ask ourselves,
Why in our feeble structure such discontentment dwells.
No! There is no real point; no reason why I write…
For every day the sun goes down and diminishes the light.