The Poem

The Poem

I had this thought, a muse you say
inside my head it creeps.
I cannot tell where it came from
it woke me from my sleep.

It could have been the leaves of Fall
yellow, orange and red.
It might have been a boy I saw
riding on his sled.

Perhaps it was the deer I spied
watchful as they ate.
It could have been the wedding cake
upon this fancy plate.

It might have been a scary book
with tales of blood and gore.
It maybe was the the parade I watched
marching by the grocery store.

Still it could be the paths we see
where our heroes died.
Then it might be the funeral pyres
where their Mothers cried.

But still the poem remains a muse
until the words are read.
The muse it seems will haunt my dreams
still trapped inside my head.

© Copyright 2006 T.L.Finch (UN: t.l.finch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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