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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

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

song of the lonesome

My baffled heart, singing its sordid wail,
has folded now, clinging lone to itself,
for when its curiousity does gleam,
so shall its vulnerability teem.

Anxious,desperate, my isolated soul
bellows in agony to be beheld
by any a heart who might its pain quell,
any soul to shatter the barrier shell.

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