Inspiration

She sat alone upon her bed,

the world waited white as snow,

For small tracks upon it to tread

For unclear ideas to become known

For a voice to speak, for inspiration to strike

Like lightning raining down

Or an autumn breeze to stir the trees

Shaking off their leaves of brown

And the longer she waited the quieter it got

She could not put into words

The twists and turns of her every thought

Soaring in her head like birds

She could write of an early morning as the sun burns away the fog

Or the dewdrop on a spiders web

Or the red breasted robin’s song

She could write of the feelings of men

Of love of sorrow of joy

Or the stories of her grandfather when he was just a boy

Over and over she started again

Every line she wrote destroyed

She could not put into words her thoughts

for there was no way to describe,

The infinite possibilities she saw out her window,

And the numerous possibilities inside

So with a sigh she started once more, writing a poem of truth

Sometimes the best poetry can never be written,

it has to remain within you.