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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 13, 2010

Sad Song

The world offers no beads of nectar today;
It is dry and wrinkled with somber old age.
Lain before me is emptiness alone portrayed;
And in the cruel bleak of it I am encaged.

Not a blade of grass nor drop of dew could glisten,
My heart could not purr with such joy.
There is not a word spoken of charm I could listen,
Nor may I pet any jem or blissful toy.

The sun weeps behind ominous clouds;
The sky grimly frowns in despair.
For all servents of mather nature around
Know today that she simply can't care.

Today is the day gloom prevails;
As the babble of creatures has ceased,
for a sullenness has set everywhere,
and illumination has quietly deceased.

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