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His Secret Talk

I love your energy

it bursts whenever you’re talking

about the last book you read

or when you sip your cold black coffee

while writing your poem

A poem without rhyme,

yet remains beautiful

“You’re a great poet,” there I told you.

“I’m not,” you replied. “I am a lost soul.

A noise that resonates in silence.

I am the ebony eyes that lose its clarity to see.”

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