The muse...

I muse over my muse,
quite often she lives me amused.

She's a naked woman,
wrapped in orchid blue Kitegne,
and a crochet head wrap for crown.
She tells me tales of together,
where her and I live within a castle;
a Casablanca in Mombasa,

Where we'll swoon with each other
till the moon in it's fine hue
wavers due to dawn,
creeping out in the morn-
an ecstasy where her and I
entwine in promiscuity .

I muse over my muse,
quite often she gives me blues...

She's a boomerang,
when I pick her up to play,
I throw her and she returns.
When I leave her unattended,
she sulks like a homeless puppy,
gives me poodle eyes and I cry

I try to be sly so I ask her why,
she sulks yet I'm lonesome without her,
bored like a lone tree in a vast field,
in need of her to come around and cut me down,
chop me into blocks and turn me into pencil,
as she plays atop my thoughts till I write.

I muse over my muse,
quite often she blows my fuse...

She's a goddess
when she cat walks over my medulla,
she over powers my mind.
I start to struggle like a foot in a high heel,
high on thoughts I often seek escape,
If her heel broke it would be good fate.

Maybe then she'd tread softly;
ayeh, the light bulb in my mind,
will start to differ, start to flicker,
for she'd have gone silent like a mute,
and it'd blow and I'd be rendered of no use,
without the current that she induces.

I muse over my muse,
very often she leaves me confused.