I’m only a copy of a poet
That was and never will be.
A poet that drowns between lines.
That is buried in pages,
Weeps words,
Sigh inspirations.
A copy of a hidden poet,
Anonymous,
Invisible.
That no one knows
And never will.
Will only be a vague idea,
A maybe hugged by fear.
Where his dreams are the reality
Of his mind, and his life
The reality of his eyes.
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