Sunday Is Gloomy. Poem by kyle turner

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
For all the boys to read.
So farewell to the creator of our collective creativity,
I shall honor your footsteps with my plagued words.
This is your army
and we are all right behind you.
It won’t be the same with our Emilie gone
like a bride with no ring
or a swallow with no song.