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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 10, 2010

The Man's Mermaid

A single man residing upon the shore
gazed out as always at the waves, now torn
by a beauty that not his made him forlorn.

The creature with exhilarating allure,
eyes, green, searing, angelic as nothing before
he wished to own for him alone to adore.

The elegance of her pale and flawless skin
was glorious as was her scaly, cushiony fin,
and her as his possession was all he cared to win.

Seductive were her pink, plump lips,
and from them a fluid, fresh language dripped,
and all the man desired was from the world her clipped.

The feeling she effortlessly, accidentally induced,
evoked the threat of her freedom reduced
as absence of his domination upon her he refused.

The vision could no longer remain,
as she left, bolting in great disdain
after revealed was the nature of his cruel game.

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