Dear Edgar Allan Poe:

"Etherized upon a table"

I mourn the loss of melancholy, as my heart slums into a dark alley of the truths untold. I seek my refrain and find no Os in the repetetion of what the heart once adored. The elevation of the soul, and the pleasures of the heart are all stories a past -- the connotation does not varry; the allietrations invain: the ugliness lingers and the papers are stained, with words that follow like a tideous argument and questions, which are raised, but on the matter they fail: the poem does not exude beauty.