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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

Monday, July 12, 2010

Daydream

Sweet daydream,
I will plummet into your sacred bed of fairy tales.
So I may flush the consciousness of beating hearts,
the pulses all around me, so haunting..
Do press them behind my sky.
Only one I shall pluck to dream of
And that one purges the muddled confessions
from all I ever winced for.
And erupting will be the contracting swarm
of mockingbirds flittering neath my chest.
For, daydream, what euphoria are you,
to have my heart by you kissed.

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