Poem 9

tell me, what was the point of it all?
the fuss and the thrill of methodically collect
precious unique things
creating layers of amazeness
never give away, never lend, never let go
stash in boxes, pile in corners, cover from dust.
a labour of love, threadbare from impulse
a fête turned fester, carving fast
inside it rebels, aghast by lost wander
the gentle candour of an empty triangle
a life built around sweets and treats
retain your possessions, a coup d’etat of the heart
no fall from grace, no elegance, no ethics
only a small trace of failure taken aback
by the smooth sound of the tide