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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

Thursday, November 3, 2011

this is life

What a conniving shard is life,
Like a shattered mirror into which I stare
To find no other eyes but my own
Gazing back perplexedly
Stuck back deep into my skull
Looking pale and gaunt
And never divulging an answer
But leaving me in unrelenting desire
From which nothing can transpire
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