Purpose

[ajcohen613]

Resisting the urge to preface this. I'm a bit stuck on how to proceed. All thoughts welcome.

Purpose


You can only see it
in a certain light,
like a star so far
it takes a black, black night
to be seen behind all this white;
behind all this noise.

You can only hear it
in that witching hour,
when a note in the throat
of a bird in his bower
begs to be heard, before the perfect flower
needs to be moved again.

You can only smell it
in a certain air,
and if the wind gets pinned
between freedom and fare
or strangled in wiry tendril snares,
you will not find it.

They say you can touch it,
if you reach just right,

but I can't put my finger on it.

Hi there,

One piece of advice I'd give would be to omit the last three lines ("They say...finger on it.") and approach the ending differently. I feel as if the idea that *life's purpose is difficult to decipher is already implied throughout the rest of your poem. Your incorporation of senses (sight, smell) and lack thereof already does this by my reading. If you want some inspiration on this topic, you might try reading some excerpts from Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, if not the whole thing. Hope this helps.

Sincerely,
Ari