They wish they knew the poem

All its deeper meanings and desires

And why the poem’s heart burned greater than 100 fires

They re-read the poem every second, every hour

I want to know the poem

Why it smiles, why it cries

But they don’t care about the poem

So they stare at it and poke

They are a tidal wave

And the poem’s meaning drifts away

As they leave the dying poem to choke

They break into the poem’s house

And look in every cranny like a mouse

They look for every answer, every reason, every why

Yet they never ask the poem

And that is how a poem can die