A Muse in Obtuse Hues

 

A Muse in Obtuse Hues

You are a stock character, boy with matching shoes

You are a free spirit with nothing to lose

But turn around: on your back you’ll find a bruise

Your clowning will diffuse, and cease to amuse

 

It is in that bruise that I stored my clues

Honest, fermented with little ruse

Now I write a poem that fast mildews

The word bruise has become a reuse

 

These are games after all, voodoos

In twos there are trues

This meter is prone to misuse

I plead you, stock character, pick up your cues.