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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

king, hold your kingdom

A flood of fervor swiftly swept away
the shards of past, stinging days.
A kingdom is this newfound splendor,
how grandeur this palace of a place.
But from fragile threads it dangles,
for its master is one and one alone.
Pray the wizard make no shambles
of the gold plated pillars he's grown.

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