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Riddle Poem

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The pouring rain of argument.
Hide my face.
A fear of falling.
Umbrella like, my hands become.
There is an art to hide the blackening.
Make up, we run
To amends of clown faces. The offering.
But only proper truths
When there is no one around.
What is my singular truth?

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Posted · Report post

Running black make up, clown ... don't get the umbrella hands or the singular truth.

But, pouring rain of argument sounds like ... a tear.

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