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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

Friday, October 15, 2010

What disappointment

The efforts from me drained
constructed what but disdain
for in all my words concocted
is lone the failure I've adopted.
Each articulation once of joy
proves now merely a cruel decoy.
Pretty was but petty,
obscured by falsity;
Pride was all disgrace,
behind a fragile face.

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