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Sunday Is Gloomy.

The disappearance of miss Emilie Devine
Weighed heavy on our broken minds.
She slipped into the punch bowl
And blew a kiss to our troubled souls.
I remember the day she told me
That even in death she’d remember my smile;
How she sold her honey underneath the ferns;
And kept better secrets than the falling leaves.
She always drove backwards down one way streets
And wrote poems on stop signs,

And her name on bathroom stalls
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Kayla Daley 08 March 2011

very good i like that you dedicated it to her sweet

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