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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

Thursday, October 28, 2010

The gift

Had the soul been granted
the most precious gift
or the foulest filth?
For the gift..
spoiled as it had claimed it never would.
And the soul was stricken with disease
that the rotted gift had spread to it.
The soul was punished
for accepting the gift.

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