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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, February 18, 2011

consecration versus fear

my vision clamors to capture
the light of harmony, ever clear,
stirring in the midst of calamity,
which threatens to plunder the splendor near.
But what does singe the vivid streaks
of mighty, celestial consecration,
but fear of the trammeling the splendor's heat
as always looming is potential of defeat.

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