The Poem

The Poem

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

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

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

It might have been a scary book
with scenes of blood and gore.
Could it be the parade I watched
marching by the grocery store?

It might have been the funeral pyres
where blessed Mothers cried
or down the paths of destiny
where our heroes died.

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