Camouflage

Garbed in pastels and duns
I went,
though there were whims
of crimson, and blue ebullience.
And I was always
just around the corner,
safe in softness,
empty of the passings by.

On a day,
I thought to write lines
with hooks and sinkers.
A thing to underlie,
a thing to fill
this tired camouflage.

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