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poems
Uncle Marty
The glinting snow began to melt as it hit my numb hand.
The sound of a dog barking fades into the distance, the cemetary is quiet.
The stone in front of me reads: MARTY ROMAN SUNDHOLM.
My tears long gone, frozen on my lashes.
I begin to sing random melodies, my voice carrying slightly higher and higher until I grow hoarse.
I kneel blowing a kiss to the stone, and I walk away.





 
 
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