The Poem With No Name

The name of this poem is unknown, even to me, the author.

I don't even know why it was ever written
It was never supposed to be.
So, why is it here, before the eyes of a reader?

Perhaps,
the ink, spilled
Or maybe the pen smudged.

The result was this.

A poem of nothing
one with no purpose or reason.

Nothing but meaningless words that are grouped together,
insisting to be called a poem.

This poem is nothing
It can entertain no one
and it can teach nobody.

This poem
has
no
name

Nor not even a heart.

It will influence no one
It will never shine
Forever hidden in the dark shadows of frost

It has no light.
It will never show if needed or wanted.

This poem cannot claim any sort of name
Nor can it pretend to own one.

It's a waste of time and a waste of
words.

Every poem needs a name,
every body needs a soul, and
every web needs a spider to weave it.

This poem will never have a name. For certain-

-Never.

A spider will  never  come to weave a web that keeps falling apart.
-