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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 2, 2010

RWP: Recycling World Publications

I, upon which many sordid blemishes sit,
venture to relinquish the guilt of the culprit
who strips from me my vivacity and my pride
deluding me with lies, never failing then to hide.

Malicious he is as he tosses me away
back into the vicious cycle without delay.
He resides inside my bones that ache from him though,
And over him I clutch not the least control.

My mind is recycling thoughts, inspecting each once more,
Fiercely flinging through them, seeking the one least torn.
The one whose logic, most complete, holds steadfast,
And heedlessly into action this thought I cast.

I immerse my ears and my eyes and all my flesh
into the ink, the abyss of a world so fresh.

I emerge into reality again
Shattering the waves of the ocean
that lies between my dreams and here.
Upon this ground I once more can say I stand,
yet my stand is one much more open
And I'm short of my previous fear.


Upon my face and with my body are publications,
expressions and gestures, established as my creations.
And what I've made reveals me in a brighter light
I finally can fathom myself in a different sight.

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