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A poem, a poem for my dear wife Shay, even

  • A poem, a poem for my dear wife Shay, even though I'm a poet I don't know what to say.
  • Dear Shay, your're my May, the birds wing and sing for the day, we met.
  • Yet times of Old have wended on their way & it now seems Sorrow's here to stay. So Shay, my friend, it looks as though that joy must end. Can ever we know glee again? Seems not to
  • matter to thou. Shay. Shay? Shay, this is no time for jesting. Shay? Oh my dear lord. Shay, Shay?" Lord Perefinbroke touched shay's cheek. Hard and cold as
  • a stainless steel fridge, Shay's cheek rebuked Perefinbroke's touch. "Why!?! Oh, Shay! Gone too soon, my dear. Much too soon!" Perefinbroke removed his hand from her cheek like a
  • person that is very experienced in removing hands from cheeks. Shay gasped in horror because she had finally discovered the truth. Perefinbroke was actually
  • Relieved the door finally opened and he could escape, unnoticed. The claustrophobia was too much.
  • It enclosed him, wrapped him up into a tiny box, and then sealed the box with a carefully placed bow. His heart beating rapidly against his chest, he ventured out.
  • As he was walking out he realized he forgot a card to celebrate this wondrous day. He walked back in and started rummaging through some. He decided on the one that said,
  • "Life's a beautiful mess." because it seemed fitting. "Ahh the joy to be alive!", he thought as he left the store once more.

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