::

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, July 12, 2010

Aaaah

My arms, coiled bones and wary flesh,
envelop a manifestation, vivaciously fresh.
My songs sing for this instant I know no less,
So I secure the elation tightly to my breast.
What a lustrous light I've stared.
The stars could not compare.
No, they fall back to the abyss of dark
whilst my luster is glazed in blaze ever stark.

No comments:

Post a Comment