A photographer lies in wait for a moment to capture. Hours on end spent with patience cloaked.
All for a moment of fame. Flash click and gone. The moment. The fame too.
The heaviness in the air stays palpable. The salt you taste almost real.
Just when you write off another weatherman foible, the rain comes crashing accompanied by faithful thunder.
A still lake until an innocuous pebble gets thrown in.
The cold still superficial veneer, broken with ripples multitude.
Takes a fraction of time to cause a shift. A well-meaning truth. A half-hearted sentiment.
I ask you, is this the price I have to pay for my moment of bliss? When in every calm, you are quick to stone?
You knife through and through my sweet, and I simply come undone.
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