Analysis of Wonder and Dismay

I'm filled with wonder and dismay.
Is life real, a dream, illusion?
A construct, maybe, I could say,
who'd author such confusion?

If me, I dread what might portend;
I'm not that good with tools.
Others think they comprehend,
maybe sages...likely fools.

Call up all the ones I know;
sample their opinions.
Then I'd have to stem the flow
of disparate dominions.

Dogmas are too quickly brought,
too readily believed;
words most keenly wrought
serve often to deceive.

Some explain it all away,
ascribe it to God's will.
Doesn't this free will betray,
doubt in self instill?

So I write what I call verse—
toil with metered rhyme—
crafted well, both tight and terse,
ardor most sublime.

Thank you all for treasured prose,
honor for what's mine—
stanzas, lines that we compose
touch briefly the divine.