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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, August 2, 2010

Moonrays In The Forest

Many beaming moonrays,
coiled through the trees,
glided against the dark haze,
to rinse like would the seas.
The forest, furious in luster,
grew to love the cloud
of radiation bouncing faster
than any a thing by laws unbound.
The thickets stretched their arms
in a breeze to reach the source
of the glow by shadow unharmed
traversing every course.
Branches reflected the beam,
the cold, polished stream,
and were purified by its steam.

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