::

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, July 27, 2010

The Angel

From the mournful depths of a sinister cave
teeming with ancient spiteful shards
arose the angel from its dusty grave
to unbury herself and all fragments discard.
Springing through a beam of gleaming
flourescence she did tenderly make her ascent
in flaming skin from which a glint was steaming
and neath eyes from which flickering hazel was sent.
Her wings coated rich in metallic gold,
she spoke eloquence my heart did behold.
She wrapped me in felicity,
tearing me from my crippled seat
to toss me in her joyous sea.

No comments:

Post a Comment