poetry

Miss Riddler To You

​

I’m inside, outside, hiding in your throat, a storm covers up my parade in which stops my actual gloat. 

Deeply saddened, joyous or happy as a lark, I bring my own drink to cater by far. 

Pools, rivers or puddles are are terms I search, for nonbelievers say often, I should turn off the facility of my works.

 What am I?

Answer: Tears

By Tamara Dorsey-Moore

Copyright (c) 2017 Reserved purposes intended.

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