Poe of Tree

Alice, of the agonizing Alice, like Hope only full of death in life and splendor. Take a pinch of one potential, never a handful is either or the or. Tumble, dumble, those twins always seemed troubled; long ago, yet to come is written within her lore. Given to fly, through Hope's Id of all eye to the letter of her "e", she plays her game and always floats the board with her score. She works, and works it hard, morally cleansed by her own crystal vision of the space they called nevermore. The Poetry, his agonizing Poe of tree, quotes ravens as writing desks anchored to the floor. His Lenore let the bell roll dying, Hope is stagnantly moving on for she loves what others do abhor. Then she laughed at the danger closeness within my face, for Hope she rubbed for her I be the Labrador. Ugly she found me, ugly she left me, fallen off her ugly tree landing on the branches of that sycamore.