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December blows its frosty breath,
ice flows downstream.
Isn't ice white? This is so grey.
Where is the beauty of yesteryear?
Shouldn't the air be fresh?
It's spoiled, tears spill,
she takes out her Polaroid,
click after click
snap after snap and she vows
she'll send them as good news
of the progress of the countryside.
Will he love her photos?
Will he leave her then?
Will she miss his sweet hot lips?
She knows not.
She sees the river bank,
dead like a plate of grief,
her tears spill more.
The Polaroid works harder than before.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2024
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