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Spring Storms Breaking Summer Love

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High noon,
And the sky is grey and dark
And rumbling with thunderous temper
And spits in derision at the
Fickle folly of the world.
And its scorn matches
The salty tears skipping down my cheeks.
And looking out my smudged-mascara
Eyes, I sigh
And wonder if you are crying too,
Or if the sky’s hatred
Is aimed at my foolishness.






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