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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 15, 2010

Heart, don't depart

My heart wanes back into the night sky,
an abysmal pit all too forlorn.
And roosting lone is my soul to cry
for it's me my treasured gem has scorned.
Some wire has cleaved it from me,
and the wire my esteemed has welded.
For unwittingly it spurned to not see
That within only I it is sheltered.

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