Poems

The riddler meets a poet.

In living, I am present;

In love, yes I still am;

Never in just a soul existing.

On an empty canvas,

I bury myself,

with vibrant colors

of pens and paint.

Forever

in the middle of novels.

Always

lending ears to vinyls.

I am found in a pitless void,

climbing to the surface,

with nothing but verses.

Who am I?

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7 thoughts on “The riddler meets a poet.

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