Or whatever else you want to do with it. I don't care, really.
Acheron
The river slows and stagnates.
Days pass as months, not hours.
My heart beats calm and sedate,
As this sweet water sours.
Fickle time was never kind to me;
Never enough and now too much...
I believed I knew what was lonely,
Yet now I learn I knew not such.
Years will pass before the tide turns,
Carrying me back to your arms.
Time cares not about my concerns;
It worries not who it harms...
This emptiness is only filled by you,
Yet how long and much will do?
2007-12-17
17:01:43
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5 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry