Waste

Anxiety made time stone
with every aspect killed
With you, always felt at home
Anxiety will never make the heart healed.

The night that withered a daisy
Hours never slowed down
The passion I feel, maybe?
Hours I've spent for making love mount.

Never have you responded to my kisses
leaving me alone in the pangs of cold
never allowed us to mend indifferences
leaving you while having me hold.

Blood of love I have tasted
Blood from your passion wasted.

Feb. 10,1997

12:05 a.m.

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