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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

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Hipocracy

To negotiate the righteous
is to stir about the wrong,
For what seeker of any kindness
could withstand the bloodshed long
as the weaponry does tower up
just as does the sinister prevail
when permitted is it to seep
beneath the good's shielding veil.

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