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
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Poem Starting With A Line From Norman Dubie
A kiss is like a dress falling off a tall building, landing quietly upon the concrete, its ruffles very shielding. Silent love like an exalted ulcer to the edge made a dash, and the union of thrilled lips was the subtle crash.
Interesting phrases. You definitely matched the first line well in the rest of your poem.
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