::

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

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

The End

Tranquility is brought by my concealment,
comfort envelops me and inside me is sent.

Soothing is the dullness I once possessed,
Yet now more chaos inhabits my chest.

I long again for the wonderfully familiar boredom,
I cringe though as I predict it never again to come.

Yet I did once sing with such elation
for my old now but once young creation.

How forlorn to think my song deceased;
How languishing to know me now diseased!

Yet that time of beauty passed,
And lingers now nothing that did last.

No comments:

Post a Comment