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
Melancholy Sky
Tis a somber tune that crept upon the stars. with distortion does it croon as melancholy it regards. And melancholy's all it is, the sky in its abbhored fit as it relinquishes the bliss once floating with a goldness lit.
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