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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

Monday, April 12, 2010

Nonsense

The pen screeching thoughts so pensive;
the paper in apprehension overly sensitive;
the table shivering too with anticipation;
the floor complicating the pen's obligation
as rising is it and mounting the subjugation
to occur within the pen's thoughts alterations.
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