Point Made Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

If false is truth’s mirrored reflection,
if life and death spin share same coin,
then what is the point of perfection
when opposites ever must join?

If Future-Past's windfall convection
blows present to Present present,
why should eye, inspecting complexion,
chance challenges ever resent?

From Destiny there’s no protection
the game must play out over time,
while each Cause Effect intersection
is figleaf or figment for rhyme
as if ripple's reviewed for inspection
expanding, wavebanding to landing,
the moment's selection detection
depends on direction outstanding
which itself, due to sound wave inflexion
unlike light, cannot echo for aye!
There is no promised land, no election
to heaven or hell for the “I”.

If far, near, acceptance, rejection,
depend on criteria judgemental
then what is the point of invection
when sin_win's still coin of grudge mental?

Time adds to each serpentine section
which slithers, then withers or cheats,
recycling its heartbeat collection
as Time takes from time it deaf eats.

So though some prefer circumspection
while others time out with mimed flourish,
what little remains, resurrection?
that's not burned worms or maggots must nourish.

Thus who turns to deep introspection
and who fame’s mirage ladder would climb
alike are condemned, misconception,
while “afterwards” who cares a dime?

If truth springs from falsehood’s def[l]ection,
if life from death none may disjoin,
each a link in Fate’s chain is, projection
which spirals from loin to Sir loin.