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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

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

My VampiraVampira

Royal maine befalls marble breasts,
Heavy eyelids lay upon fiery eyes,
And a pout injected with strength
does cover the majestic fangs.

Vampira, vampira!
The name a scream and echo
like the calamity that is her shadow
or any trace of her royal soul
fierce it is a piercing moan..

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