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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

woman

The woman is of airy nature,
what has she to offer?
Her stance is one of little stature,
is not her mind much softer?

Her cheek is much too apt to linger,
while what remains of her integrity?
Her lusty docile does but want trigger,
but what is projected of her mind's vitality?

Yet she vitiates the vanity
of such trivial complacency
when does her deluge of words
encompass more than her vision affords.

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