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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

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Cherishment < / 3

Cherishment I generously granted for my gem;
twas charity that sent my heart unto its every whim.
And dashing, dancing, galloping, my attentive adoration,
did swerve not once in all its jumps to reach the consternation.
But curtains rose to show the glows of growing obligation;
for twas not my treasure that did call as it was but my coming fall.
Oh, the fiendish beauty giggled for my foolish naivety,
for I had not seen my cherishing in any its braverity.

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