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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

You

Wedge into that evil mask,
obfuscate your monstrosity;
hide your ugliness and ask
how ever could you decieve?

Parade around in false vanity,
for though by ignorance are you reigned,
surely have you the sanity
to know your true potential proclaimed?

And measely chance that there is much,
considering your treasonous poison;
Your lechery infects too much,
your cruel tricks stem without reason.

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