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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

Friday, April 9, 2010

Muse

A monotonous mind abruptly ignited
by a fascinating spark that excitedly enlightened.
Singularity by surreal sensations
seemingly was distinguished,
though present were required compensations
to the originator of the idea that was relinquished.

The conception, belonging to no lone man,
was transmitted by the submitted inspiration of another's stand.
The identity of the idea's architect remained silent,
for to his muse he was a thief too he confided.

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