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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

curse

The curse did relentlessly disparage
the once consistently prevalent mirage
which had greatly luminously governed
every mirthful life of happy mothered.

Now see the air's been tainted capricious,
its nature chaos painted pernicious;
all sacred blessings evaporated
when by crass doom was fate saturated.

The curse befell too mercurially
for concern to flow immediately,
though had the trepidation sooner shot,
would not have mightier our fancies' fought?

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