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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

Thursday, July 22, 2010

evil time

For the endlessness I pour my cry,
for if no end, no definition arrives.
The insignificance is all too devoid;
I weep for what boundless time has soiled.
It's infiltrated all satisfaction;
it's ransacked the every distraction,
for all was pillaged by its detraction.
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