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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

mend me

It was in a meadow of euphoria
that I was finally mended..

The poison once cursing my heart
burnt quickly to ash of no harm.
For whence came the ecstasy of embrace
but when my hands brushed your gentle face?

Not a moment ever passed before
that on such a cloud of smitten did I sit,
till came the dawn that mended me,
when did you caress my draining fit.

What a crown of divinity you had
and to think you saw me in royal light!
What ever made me beam with that
was alone your approaching sight.

I gazed in surprise as you reached,
ebbing closer in such loving fashion,
you gathered me nearer as you beseeched
and my heart to yours promptly fastened.

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