::

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

Myself

The commander of this sturdiness,
The director of myself,
The authority of this alertness,
Into my soul does delve.

My anchor I am,
From inside to out I am the link,
My contentment so crammed
Within me never shall sink.

I require not the slightest service
As the cause I am of my deliverance.
I desire not the aid once sought,
As the fight I am has for me fought.
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)