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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

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Fear

Harbored in my startled heart,
lingers a loathsome fearfulness,
Rejecting callously any depart,
and filling my body with dire distress.

Panic is exposed in the pace of my breath
for inside I itch with grim, ferocious fear.
Petrified of a world whose only escape is death,
Terrified this agony looms frighteningly near.

Harrowing the path must be ahead
where suffering lurks, the karma of my hoax.
Heinous is the day I so very much dread
that brings me the truth of my obstructing cloaks.

Morbid is the coming hour
that haunts me through the night.
It is me that they shall devour.
My deciet removed, the time so right.

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