There is a poet.
Who doesn’t know anything about poems.
Neither do I.
But he writes.
So do I.
He starts from a question.
For which he looks at me for an answer.
I wait for him to get depressed.
That way I can build some more reasons.
He talks of winds.
Not much of storms.
He thinks about escape.
Not much about exit.
I wish to break him in pieces.
So I can paint every piece with blue.
He won’t mind blue I think.
He is color blind.
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