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Myra

remained a mystery,
always singing in her  
sleep I think she was
a gypsy witch.
 
She
conversed with winds,
we stood dumbfounded
asking her what she’s
doing.
 
Chasing
us around her table,
peeking out from her  
raven hair when she
minded us.
 
Myra  
you were a mystery,
you didn’t sing in your
sleep that day one of my  
uncles discovered you.
_boybrains
Written by _boybrains
Published
Author's Note
Still burning the frankincense.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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