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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

Fill A Page

Lying restlessly before me, a void arena
seduces me into its barren plain.
How infatuated I am to fabricate;
How I crave to concoct words most untamed!

Fidgeting with fantasies, my mingling mind
does too many images attempt to describe.
So bedazzling is its plethora of ideas aligned;
How it aches to mold the most dazzling design!

I hunger to engrave upon the bare,
for the marvels of the world I yearn to share.
For each glimmer of glory my eyes have caught,
lasts a wish to mirror to all the beauty sought.

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