::

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

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Love Potion

He has hoisted me into the heavens,
for his remedy was a superb cider.
The bubbling potion I guzzled in seconds,
for irresistably it glided.

What a victory to fill the hollow center
that had chewed from deep within;
And now it's plugged with emeralds,
each polished to a twinkling grin.

His face, my portal to a sacred magic,
beams frosted with ample artistry.
His hands tucked, to move too tragic,
behold my sentiment with mystical mystery.

Indeed, his poison of enchantment I've drunk
And drunk til not a tiny trickle remained.
And my heart, once a corpse now a laden trunk,
Stows all intoxication and is free of any stain.

No comments:

Post a Comment