Spilling Ink

Writing is the painting of the voice.

Friday, July 29, 2016

Poor Little Alice

Poor little Alice
Fell down the rabbit hole
She bumped her head 
And bruised her soul,
And when she awoke
In the the garden of singing flowers
Alice began to grow.
And poor little Alice 
Wasn't so little anymore
Posted by Grover is my spirit animal at 10:51 AM
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Labels: Alice in Wonderland, poem

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