Obscure Demur

Obscure Demur

I woke inside iambic verse.
The trees were gone and so much worse—
the sky was dead and gone the sun,
though light still kept the night undone.

I walked upon the Poet’s form,
and hoped to feel a thunderstorm.
But all was still except a breeze
which made me feel real ill at ease.

I ran along a metered song,
and thought the beat still somewhat wrong.
Too strong to fit a pretty noun,
until I turned it upside down.

    Music rhythm enters gently,
    thus I protest with this trochee.

I know you think this poem obscure,
but it is just my mere demur.

    It would not be so hard to see
    if it could just in verse be free.