‘Annabel Lee, Unpardonably He’

Eighteen-hundred-and-forty-nine and these words wind and rhyme and kill His time-out – indeed, this reckless, rather resolute rediscovery. She seems to have an upset stomach again – something or another about His mislaid territory – all inner-ward gilded oceans exploding, exponentially.
And They together seem to feel
A moment curse itself silly insane, midst the golden decay of roundabout magnificence, indeed. Breaths catching colossal kite, some might whisperer it and say it oh so very succinctly.
Beneficially. Summer shade with art-ificial mistakes. These in-tell-igent words worth a million dollars of imaginary instances in blinding kind – and kindly They may well let Themselves ultimately, untimely be, whilst caught midst His/Her distanced glance
Arm-tangled time again. Come again, gain it rather tremendously from He, please.
Summarise, re-summary
Of a sidled life of permitted strife on knife-edged whereabouts wherein it has been undeniably, undoubtedly pledging derelict allegiance to Their nocturnally twisted, blistered thrones put upon constanced fire.
My, oh why, have We all of us finally lost our favourite best friends again!?
Pen-thinkers dishevelled til pressed blessedly amidst red-ribbon inked indus-try. Penny-tangled and unarguably twisted til magnificently made up to make mammoth sense when least anticipated.
Suspected yet again, this incessant rain is managing to getting to spattering matter-of-fact monstrously against Their lesser better beings
And speaking oh so very solemnly
With-in We. Pleading for help again. The typewriter shrieks to speak for itself, oh so very motherf*cking gent-ly.
And an enormous gap lies disgustingly, disruptively, disgruntingly between mere brilliance and persnickety misbehaving’s. When Poe shows UP – A public imposition if We will. Let it be oh so very motherf*cking strikingly post-modernised.
Constructing this world of uncertainty
The consumption consumes us, whilst his words but bruise us.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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