What is it that puts poems
In such a fondness of our heart
The passion, rhythm, meter
Oh so many ways to start

And yet, I ask myself, 
why does it happen so,
Uncounted poems are written
Yet not one contempt does go?

Both science and religion
Can vex their following fray
By answering all questions
In a definitive way

Refreshing, then, it is for me 
to slip into a poem
And muse on why's, and who's, and how's
Though answers, I won't know 'em

A rhyme: a way to pass the time?
A way to spread the word?
Whatever web the writer writes
No censure is incurred

For "Once upon a midnight dreary,"
O wherfore art my pen?
And tweedle dee and tweedle dum 
Can guide me to the zen

The poem, a place to estivate,
Till fall will call me back
But sublime and pure compassion can
Assuage life's cruel attack.

For every poem has meaning
Though the poet may know not,
‘Cause even in palaver
Can insight still be wrought

And so I write my own poem
To hang on this ambiguitree
Cause poems, they only try to see
The nebulous of what could be.