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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare

Sunday, May 1, 2011

passion

Passion everlasting
swims sweetly in my veins
some narcotic, yes it reigns
and beneath it I tremble
quiver in its vapors
descending gently
yet relentlessly
and how I bow to it
passion everlasting

is there no emptiness
my ardent love can fill?
is there not a space
I can envelop?
let seep into it my cherishment?
My sympathy?
My love?
My desire?
My passion everlasting
grandly passing
to blankness satisfaction?

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